dog.

Lapping
the salt of
your skin. Like a mongrel.
I am orphaned to
pride. Devoid of
decorum,
wobbly on all fours
look at me,
I’ve clearly
pissed away
my own sick, meager
apathetic
standards.

And what for?
To grovel and
plead
for each morsel of
heart
you so humanely
chuck under my nose.
Such treats cannot
be
earned from
modest tricks.

When will you see
I don’t let you
leash my spirit out of some
warped sense of thrill or
craved perversion. It’s in spite of,
Not because of
your harsh hand
that I lie loyal
at your feet.


© 2001, Arden Davidson