I AM LIKE A TINY SPECK OF SHIT

 

I am like a tiny speck of shit,

and you are like the big golden sun.

 

You roll with unselfconcious grace

Across the perfect blue.

Human boys discover wonder

In their wish to roll with you.

 

You love "the earth". You love

all kinds of things

Incapable of real reciprocation.

 

You sit docile mostly,

patient with their fussing hands and praise.

 

Not me. I hop up on my haunches for their

absentminded pats.

Pat me. Call me "Stinker", then

Pat me again.

 

I make a little whining sound.

I try to make it musical to please them.

 

This is me in the universe:

whining, parched and teetering,

cruising for the one soft touch.

 

I push my muzzle into everything, every

loosely held fist with my

wet black nose.

 

I eat too much and talk too much and

Ruin things by chewing them.

 

I don't think you even have a mouth.

It's just another of your

Famous pretty dimples.

 

(Mine's more like a sewer or

where something's been excised.

Things rot and molder in there.)

 

Your's is like a pink glass jar

you keep your things inside, your

keys and little hippie trinkets: your

beads, your bells, your i-ching coins.

 

But it's me that's normal. It's

normal for things to rot

and molder in the body.

 

It's very weird to have a mouth

go nowhere,

and your mouth most certainly

goes nowhere.

 

 

 

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