stone laughter
peeks over the top
of the laptop’s screen.

i call him henri, henri
gargoyle. henri
sits back on his haunches
with his long arms touching down
between his feet.

henri’s mounted between
the speakers, head just showing
its wide shapeless mouth, all of it
tilted back and i just know he’s laughing.

if a gargoyle’s job
is to drive off demons, henri
must do it by mocking them. he’s
a great friend to this poet.

this is not the poem
where henri actually moves, by the way.
i’m still waiting for that one. in all the years
i’ve known him he’s never moved. in all the years
i’ve moved him around he’s never complained. even when
i used him as a pen rest for a while,
sticking a Waterman in his mouth,
i never saw a scowl or squirm. this gargoyle is loyal,
stoic, shaped like a belly laugh coming out of horror.

one day i just know henri
is going to step around to try the key board
and i fear i’m going to have to smash him to bits. (don’t tell him,
i want it to be a surprise.) i could never bear
to change places with him, demons being demons and all;

demons being demons, and henri gargoyle
understands demons. knows it’s not a battle, but a war.
he chips away at them
as patiently as a stonemason.

it’s those flakes stinging my arms and face
that goad me to poetry. but if henri
wants to become a poet, he’ll have to find
his own.

it’s not that i’m ungrateful, henri, mon frere,
it’s that i haven’t got the tools.