Dog Tired

The dog is sick in the living room.


You are counting down the minutes

until your brain stops thinking — lying

in bed like you’re made of more

than moments.

Time is a measurement of man made

miniman-madeness. The spine of a fragile
woman stuck in the fetal position.

The backhanded palm print on pristine skin.

The crackling of knees bending for prayer.


You’ve made it a habit of living

in climates where only nature can survive.

The harshness of truths shuts down

Main street like it executes an ecosystem.

There are days the high temperature

does not creep into positive digits. You will

die if you leave the house as god intended,

in your bare skin.


“We are broken,” he says, laughing. The rise

and fall of his chest like a tidal wave. You

are a luxury yacht capsized so far off coast

no one is aware you need saving. He is

the communications officer ignoring every

S.O.S crossing his desk. You, are the string

of oceanic lights playing hide and seek with the fog.


The dog is coughing — the couch lacquered

with thickness of breath that cannot be cut.


In your sleep you dream of rain. Torrential

downpours that drain the heavens. Bugs so big

limbs fall off with a single bite. Tropical paradise

where all you wear is your birthday suit while

you dance beside lighthouses that sway in the wind.


This ain’t no party, though.


The thunder in your head is the dog heaving.

You don’t get up to save her.

You know it’s impossible for dogs

to actually choke.

                         Human’s are not

                         the most evolved mammals

                         on Earth. We just learned how

                         to take, and walk like we own.


You feel him in iceberg shadows.

The painful inching across bare

floors past midnight. You reach out

like his breath isn’t frozen. Like your heat

combined would be enough to save your skin.

He is the last minute bell.

The untied lace.

The mannequin reaching for the window.

The make believe power of lost prayer.


You know better than most

that no one can save

you but your own self.


The clock ticks away

the hours of silence like the solace

sunlight finds in cathedral ceilings.

The windows are quiet in their stains.

The house sleeps without him.

The dog comes to bed.