Friday, October 25, 2013

V. 2, #210: October 25, 2013

I just saw Papi's dog run down my street,
if you could call it running. One leg gone,
another just a useless piece of meat
that hung there as he hobbled toward my lawn.

He's obviously in pain, and I'd feel bad
but for the fact that dog's angry and mean,
with foam all down his jowls like he was mad.
More rank grotesquerie you've never seen.

On moonlit nights in Autumn that hound bays
for hours, and the sound is like a soul
in Hell. It makes me shiver in my bed.
Those blood-red eyes, that tongue as black as coal,
that smell like he's been nosing something dead...
and no one's seen old Papi now for days.

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