With Breakfast On Their Whiskers
snuggled up to the gentle fire
under the moon and stars
he rests his head
and nestles into
a long lingering
swig of whiskey
that drifts his mind
on the night breeze
like the billowy puff
slowly eclipsing
the moon
a sparkling stream of embers
crackles the wind
as he pets his dogs ears
and mutters "money"
to a shooting star glittering over
the muted moon
like his mama taught him to
a lifetime ago
"Say money when you
see a shooting star,
and you'll be rich."
he thinks of her
watching the milky way
spilt across the starry night
Van Gogh, Field with Crows
the girl with the red scarf flying
across the field of snow
star gazing with her in his arms
on cold clear winter nights
and he's sad they're gone
raises his hand
flips a big fat bird
at the veiled lady
at fate, at the Universe
at God
and his dog nuzzles
her muzzle against his chest
and he softly pats her shoulders
he closes his eyes and tries
to conjure a comforting thought
but he can't free his mind
from battered women
innocent children
demented devils
in white hoods
proud boys
qanon shamons
anti-semetic rappers
comics and clowns
cult politics
self righteous religious dismissers
of the evil on their side
his black dog yawns and wines
"yeah, Lizzy" he tells her
"Everything's gonna be alright."
he strokes his fingers
through her silky fur
and along comes Morpheus
to massage his brain with
a procession of
subliminal imagery
to ease the quiet desperation
that inflicts us all
(according to Thoreau)
and the dimming fire
snaps red coals as he
sleeps through his snores
only once gets up to pee
and as if ascending from the grave
his consciousness reels through
muffled memories
disassociated clips of
past and present
flashes of rapturous love
and horrifying hate
until the last thought shard
from which the feeling lingers
surfaces like a red bobber
his waking dream
reeling it in
as his mind thaws
in the bright morning sun
bittersweet feeling fragments
with no narrative to piece them together
love
that's what he feels
his eyes glisten remembering
the girl of his dreams
as they were
so long ago
Lizzy licks his nose
and he rouses to his feet
"Ready for some breakfast girl?
We gotta get going. Got
things to do, Lizzy!"
pulls a tin from his pack
and peels the lid for her
fixes himself a bowl of granola
munching breakfast
on a cozy desert morning
"Purty good."
he tells his furry friend
as they stare fondly
at each other with
breakfast on their whiskers.
Copyright © Steven Young | Year Posted 2022
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