King Lear raised me. He actually asked

Which of us loved him best. And when none replied,

Not the venal nor the unctuous nor the humble,

He fell from power without redemption for

His tragic flaw, that pride of imagined power.

I know Jay Gatsby. He lives in a mansion,

Throws parties he doesn’t attend,

Looks out to sea for life or inspiration or a green light,

Finding no solace in fast cars and pretty women,

Seeking, searching without looking inward at all.

Clyde Griffiths, truly an American tragedy,

Raised in piousness, he fled to the arms

Of a vixen with money. He thought he could have

Everything. He couldn’t. He strives on,

Trading virtue for status, an empty shell.

Well, surely we all know Huck Finn.

The illiterate boy with the adventurous streak,

He says just about anything that comes to mind,

And solves mankind’s challenge of hubris.

I like Huck. I wish I knew more people like him.

When it comes to heroes, I think I’ll take Enzo,

The dog who knows when his life is ending,

He has spent his earthly years on love,

And loyalty, his huge heart eternally

Grateful, modest, kind. Who said

“It’s a dog’s life”? Would we be

Happy to be so blessed?