the good stuff

when i wake to find the dog bowl
filled with the last of the hundred
dollar bourbon, i know it is a chance

for me to face how bad it has gotten.
i try to remember how the bourbon
found its way into the bowl.

remembering is an exercise. i see the night
like bodies through a shower curtain.
i am jealous of how the water shines flesh.

eventually i recall only the thought
that the dog was so good, such
a perfect little creature, all spit

and heart and dirt,
surely he must deserve the good stuff.


One thought on “the good stuff

  1. that’s a really good dog, in a really good poem. Now my 110 pound moosehead of a puppy might, and I mean might, get a pore of Jefferson, Woodford, or even Basil Hayden, but the line is drawn at Booker’s or better.

    Nice work.


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