if the walk she took were a tugged one
collar-bound
the thoughts bespotted
maybe dropped like shit
something to be discarded by plastic
of course there’d be plenty more
mosaically patterened as it were
to deal with hide and hair
to plea bargain with a bark
a noticeable limp
a wet nose
chewing through gardens
pissing on the roses
if she were the walk
if dogs didn’t have names
if sunshine craved leaves
something in the zygomatics of things in genereal might be hampered
but
really what seamstress would not lend felt to the cold
hard handed or justly heavy
unto the murk of saddled waiting
she would then be thrown
half had in a give
toward an anurous hope
where spit cracks the eyes of windowed gazes
or the way she squats to handle the defecated turd
crimps the stylish pleat of skirt
or cramps the hamstring’s misgivings
anyway
the moral of the whole damn thing
is
if you really want to know
that trying never implores guilt for mercy
or something like that
I forget
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