Loyalty

 This is the hardest part:
When I came back to life
I was a good family dog
and not too friendly to strangers.
I got a thirty-five dollar raise
in salary, and through the pea-soup fogs 
I drove the General, and introduced him 
at rallies. I had a totalitarian approach 
and was a massive boost to his popularity. 
I did my best to reduce the number of people. 
The local bourgeoisie did not exist.
One of them was a mystic 
and walked right over me 
as if I were a bed of hot coals.
This is par for the course-
I will be employing sundry golf metaphors 
henceforth, because a dog, best friend 
and chief advisor to the General, should. 
While dining with the General I said,
"Let's play the back nine in a sacred rage. 
Let's tee-off over the foredoomed community 
and putt ourselves thunderously, touching bottom." 
He drank it all in, rugged and dusky.
I think I know what he was thinking. 
He held his automatic to my little head 
and recited a poem about my many weaknesses, 
for which I loved him so.

Form: Free verse

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