William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Dead Snakes, Amarillo Bay, PRISM International, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers and The California Quarterly.
The little dog was aquamarine,
the little dog was many things,
but it took significant imagination to picture the little mutt
gently holding the Zimmerman telegram in its teeth
and trotting proudly (head thrown back)
toward the offices of President Carranza.
Those were days of squeezable sunlight in Mexico City,
days when the not-all-that-faraway coastline
welcomed in its saltwater cohorts,
days when youngish prostitutes in Garibaldi Plaza
smelled as fresh as cumulus clouds,
days when the girls packaged themselves in chenille bedspreads
and showed upper arms so buttery soft
the very thought of hard-biceps-yet-to-come
and trenches spaded in the earth
evoked laughter from trash-in-the-street like me,
guffaws as bass in tone
as the Chihuahua’s bark was high and squeaky.