Late Night Piss
There are Dogs barking at the tweakers
Throwing up in our garden.
Their merciless chains drag them
Clawing into the dirt
Digging into their frothing throats and I
Am happy for the tiles
For my two cold feet on the floor.
I am picking your tonsils
Out of my teeth
And spitting into the stream of
My feverish thoughts.
In the other room
I watch through the mirror
As my mother crawls into the comfort
Of her bad dreams.
And I
Am so very soft.
Or so she says.
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