His saliva drips onto my velvet lapel and though
we've been feeding him well, I'm never sure
if this time when he opens his mouth
it's just a yawn. We are all shedding
apart; my grey hairs resemble his more
each day. Even the whip sags, the old prop chair
going brown at the nails.
We're not sure what to do with him
after the spotlights close their apertured eyes
and he stands in his cage, waiting with his mouth
hinged open for hours, but we know Pride
is a word we used to be a part of.
Prompt via bigtentpoetry.org