For several months
he has guarded our postal
bastion. At first, either darting
through a slot, to be buried
by the bills and take a happy
crap on the junk mail,
or, courage dismantled,
jumping to the nearby tree.
The gargoyle now remains on top,
even when I open and close the lid.
Tan to dark brown to a blotchy
in-between, depending on his views,
the quirky anole tests me
by doing his jerky pushups
and tilting his head slightly
to read my mood. I move, his eyes move,
I blink, he blinks – a macho Morse code.
Defiantly he hangs and flashes
his bright red dewlap. If I could only
trust him,
train him,
I would never have to raise the flag.