by Paul Lojeski

Dog Days


Old dog limping along,
stinking up the avenue.
Remembering narrow
roads when he still had
his strut, that swagger
only young dogs show
off, a little jump in each
step, sharp teeth ready
to rumble in the dark
just before dawn on
that California road.
Hot for trouble, for 
anything in that cool 
breeze calling his name.






What They Do with Bad News


The TV Weather Dude was hollering 
his fool head off about incoming storm 
patterns, drowning out all memory of 
the Anchor Woman’s hushed, detailed

reports of the newest mass murders 
in hails of gun fire at malls, churches,
and schools packed with screaming 
children. The guy so worked up, 

he looked on the verge of elevating, 
of taking flight into the black clouds. 
Using fat hands to sweep across 
the map behind him, he pointed 

frantically to the storms’ possible 
paths, bouncing up and down, 
crazed with warnings about damage 
of epic proportions. Expect booming 

thunder and vicious lightning-strikes!
he roared. Then, beat, looking ill, 
he muttered, Back to Diane, who 
hissed, more mass killings at 10.






He Believed in Justice


Judge pounded the
gavel in her brain,
a scowling arrogance
curled her metallic
lips, burning weeds
filled the courtroom 
a foul stench, while 
signals from distant
galaxies shook the jury.
Not being an idiot, he
pled guilty to all charges
except the one about
being human. There 
were limits, after all, 
even for a louse like him, 
he told the sleeping guards.

Paul Lojeski was born and raised in Lakewood, Ohio. His poetry has appeared online and in print. He lives in Port Jefferson, NY.