At the end of the dock, the wolves
are howling for meat
so I throw them my heart.
Mornings, it’s just me and the dogs
on the dock in the new light,
waiting for the ferry.
The dogs will eat almost
anything, but steer clear of
the pile of dead fish that appear
on Sunday evening. The next day, there
is a mound of delicate bones,
vertebral carnage without the flesh,
but the stench is unmistakable.
You picked fish cartilage out of your
teeth, vainly trying to avoid the thin shards
that would scratch the inner lining
of your throat.
No comments:
Post a Comment