This is not about dogs, and
it’s not about water, either.
So don’t box me in, baby.
Titles are like scented candles
in a troll’s giant shit house.
Overwhelmed and pointless.
My ankles, bruised and bloodied,
are far over your hatless heads.
Bark, bark, howl at Richard III
for all commanding genius is mad.
Dog water is drinkable, but
I wouldn’t want to bathe in it.
Twenty-seven minutes ago,
I was curled like a tabby cat
warming my haunches in earth
under leaves by the overpass.
Yes, that same overpass on hwy 16.
It angles like politicians schussing
at a New Year’s Eve celebration
in some exotic winter wonderland.
Those dogs are well watered.
runs dry if you don’t raise FUNds.
Or sometimes, a fat zombie gets
all wormy gill-eyed and pale-skinned,
falling apart at your bachelor party
behind the Dumpster at Outback.
Oh, I forgot to say:
“Don’t read this; it’s drivel
from a drooling dog.”
Photo by K. Shawn Edgar