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Submitted on
September 5, 2012
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i'm a mutt running dirtdried and
mudwalloped up and down the canal.
a woman in a button down dress might
peer over an ivy encrusted balcony

and watch a dark smudge chase a kite
or, from this angle, a couple knocked
loose and luststruck as stitches, but
i am really galloping further and further from

the good side of town, the beckoning sounds;

but i am remembering anyone's hands
but yours. okay. okay. i'm no dog, but
i have been stroked and petted along
my ribbed and rapscallion diaphragm

and i have fetched mail in Wednesday
showers, i have licked tears from rapined
cheeks. i don't fear the dominance, my
wrists filling your grip like latenight

wine caught and held in a flute. i snag
my claws on the rug of mania, tugging furiously
to no avail. you watch me fret, you
watch me sing ballads couched on

dragonfruit snow and

i wasn't meant to be a pet. but
i was meant to love you slow.
curled up in a bathroom stall, foxtrotting through the making of many many many pumpkin spice lattes, only eating when everyone is asleep, teen wolf and Flaura flailing.

take a deep breath, suck the water in my chest
and cross my fingers, and hope for the best.
florence
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