Inhuman Swill

Dead squirrel lies prone,
Chin resting on its two paws.
Looks like it's sleeping.


Crossposted from Inhuman Swill

She strains at the leash,
Trying to turn the corner.
"Not that way," I say.

But Ella insists,
So I give in and follow.
Not that big a deal.

This short, narrow lane,
It's a valid path back home,
Not such a detour.

Along the sidewalk
We rush, my arm stretched out straight,
Not pausing to sniff.

She stops at the porch,
Looks at the door, looks at me,
Not old now but young.

We were gone six years,
Back now in the neighborhood
Not even six weeks.

I wish we could knock,
But our friends are not at home,
Not now, not for years.

They fled this city
Even sooner than we did,
Not fond of Gotham

But fond of our dog,
Who wags on their former stoop,
Not fenced in by time.




Crossposted from Inhuman Swill

cigar aroma
wafting in from the golf course
signals that it's spring




Crossposted from Inhuman Swill

Golfers in the rain
with travel mugs of coffee,
like this is their job.

stubbed-out cigarette
moldering wet in the sink
on the Paris train

Squirrels chasing each
Other up and around trees
Like on Benny Hill

Snowflakes ride updrafts
in Brownian reels outside
my twelfth-floor window.