Max
turning the corners
of concrete streets
we must have called out Max
a thousand times.
in the downpour,
our small cries faded
from under pettycoats & black umbrellas,
mushrooms in a storm
before we saw him
i remember the stink
it wafted about at first
the unforgettable smell
of expired red meat
defrosted and grayish-pink,
sammy's dead terrier,
dead in the concrete street
just like any other stupid roadkill,
its milky eyes
tiny hazel chinks in
a child's face,
its soaking black hair
an unmistinkably familiar wet mop
guts turned over and squeezed of all its
pulp;
Pulp.
thinly sliced red and lean
transparent enough to see the street
shit.
I think, he's dead.
Max. Dead.
our hearts sink;
Sank.
my hands are in my pockets
we haven't moved
i'm getting kinda cold.
let's look for a shovel, I suggest
dig a hole in the park or something,
we can say a few words
we'll come back tomorrow and bring flowers
i'll prepare a eulogy before bedtime.
hands dangling idly
sammy's voice replies
but it's muffled by a passing car.
time passes
and finally my friend takes one last glance before turning back;
curled up,
Max is turned on his side,
laying on a blanket of red satin silk
every muscle in his body relaxed,
his face released of tension and age
contentment despite the heavy rain
Sleep.
sammy commanded
and Max slept
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