"What do you do there, moon, in the sky? Tell me what you do, silent moon. When evening comes you rise and go contemplating wastelands; then you set."
-Giacomo Leopardi
Your friend? The word itself
leaves my mouth feeling sordid, filmy
and greased up. Like the bolts on the kennel
which I call my home. I am not your friend.
I paw the dark and wait for the dreams
and ignore my clock.
I am the plate-licker.
I tend to our garden only to feed you.
I miss the voices and the dog pissing on the floor.
The word piss lurches over my teeth,
killing my boredom. I tongue
the buzz of it, reel it around my mouth
and muscle. It helps me when I am in wait.
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