Sir Edwin Landseer's dog was not
so loyal, and his tawny coat
not so lean, but clean, delicate,
so Edwin paints burrs, matted raspy
feathered mess, a look-what-the-cat-
-dragged-in dog, with a collar
to remind one its only man's
due, this slovenly unfettered
devotion. The cause of death
unimportant, and shadowed
with even Edwin's doubt, no marks
but brief glimpse of light
on branch tip--distractions,
and indifferent to the foreground
when monochrome rendered.
Sir Edwin puts on
his best coat to paint,
just in case when walked-in
on he'd look put-together,
well-kept, a brown artly
sort. Or so in deathly repose
he'll mimic this figure, water cup
tipped over, the linseed oil soaking
the carpet in colours mixed
(but too bright, abandoned),
the veridians, carmine, butter
yellow diluted in cheap twine threads,
and maybe the dog
would stay by his side now, or,
curious and rigid, he licks the smear
of titanium white on your brow, and falls
right down dead beside you.