big sloppy wounded
dog hit by a car and walking
toward the curbing
making enormous
sounds
your body curled
red blowing out of
ass and mouth.
I stare at him and
drive on
for how would it look
for me to be holding
a dying dog on a
curbing in Arcadia,
blood seeping into my
shirt and pants and
shorts and socks and
shoes? it would just
look dumb.
besides, I figure the 2
horse in the first race
and I wanted to hook
him with the 9
in the second. I
figured the daily to
pay around $140
so I had to let that
dog die alone there
just across from the
shopping center
with the ladies looking
for bargains
as the first bit of
snow fell upon the
Sierra Madre.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
