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.
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