LOVE AND THAT DAMN DOG
Her red shirt ran, and all the ink turned white. What was she thinking, putting that thing in the wash with the whites? Now she'll be mad as a fighting cock. She loved that ratty old thing. What were you thinking that night when we first made love, the morning that ratty old dog next door died? What a day that was, burial and new sex. When we first made love, the morning after was full of questions—she thought I'd killed the dog. What a day! Questions, a burial, and more sex. Sometimes you're insatiable with your questions—did I kill the dog? Of course not, though it barked every night. Sometimes you're so insatiable even the quiet won't put me to sleep. Damn dog barked every night. Used to wear a little red sweater, and he was only quiet in sleep. I remember the day she bleached it. Used to wear a little red sweater till the color ran, and all the ink turned white— I remember the day she bleached it. She loved that ratty old thing.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Red Coyote Review, Deep South Magazine, and Aromatica Poetica, among others.