William C. Blome- A Poem

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.

 

MEXICO CITY, 1917

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.