The King Is Dead

It was only a Guinea pig, people eat them.
Peruvian mountain folk do not have to starve,
there’s no dearth.
Many are bred for their special coats of course:
the Slinky, the Peruvian, the Abyssinian,
the American; the American
is good with other guinea pigs -
good to know.
Our one must have been a mutt,
we called it Elvis,
it looked like Elvis in his fat period.
It died quietly in the night.
When my son got back from school
I helped him bury it in the garden.
I had a little burlap bag to put him in,
it used to hold peanuts
Elvis would have liked that.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2022

Poem

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment

Be the first to comment on this poem. Encourage this poet.

Get a Premium Membership
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a Premium Membership.
Book: Diverse Voices: The Poetry of Human Rights and the Pursuit of Peace