Poem: "Pata Chueca"

His right foreleg had, unset,
healed by the time I saw him first.
My grandmother pointed him out
to me, as we watched the cars go by.
"Here comes pata chueca," she said
(Her smile was God then, though now she's dead).
He limped and sniffed along his route
and, as dogs could do then, he wore a pout.
He appeared every day like sunrise and sunset,
driven by hunger -- I know now -- and thirst
(Here was a pet who would never die of gout).
Then, he vanished, but, no, I didn't cry,
until I held my grandma's hand and kissed her goodbye.

~Mike Duron (composed Saturday, December 1st, 2001)

Note:
Poetry is not therapy. Poetry is art.