Cruelty's Hounds

women=booze

 Cruelty’s Hound

 

I sit staring at handy-down clouds Sunday after the grass finished dew-licking my weathered jeans.

And I saw a hobo lay down his hand on a dog and say, “ No, we only vomit on new moon backsteps and rugs of Cajun women”.

“Sip the whiskey”, the hobo said, “it brings good fortune in future myth”.

The dog howls up a storm has I whistle down the whiskey like a musket consumes gunpowder.

I whisper to the hobo, “You were so cruel, but whiskey numbs us all”.

He bobbles down like a rugby player and tackles the dog; they twist in turn in cacophonous love.

Sun-rays get knotted up in my hair so I yearn to rip them out, but they were always here before.

With my feet on the air I yell at the dog, “Stupid b***h I’m right here!”

She was always this way.

She’s why some men carry booze on their arms instead of lovers.