Different Gaits

my

black dog walks me.

short-leashed

& choke-collared,

the treats I get

taste of tears

. . .

altogether too salty,
 
 

but I eat them right up

–with a spoon–

(left over from offal

amuse-bouche

and more plastic. . .

more sporky

than silver)

they’re chewy,

(these Pavlov treats)

as pointing fingers,

and hurt the jaw

clenched in a fist

–which keeps my smack-you mouth busy, at least

and aye,

and oh,

I like a busy mouth—

ringing my ears with

a tortuous whine too high

for anyone else to hear,

they hit my gut

exactly like a steering wheel going 60

–trussed in nots already—

(not this)

(not that)

but them there. . .

my instinct is to run,

but black dog meanders

. . .

me an’ her

meander

. . .

missing deadlines,

and ruing downtime.