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.