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.