Too Many Toy Dogs
The limbs
stiffened, hands cramped,
Paddy’s old
Irish whiskey stamped
on what
might be a lopped off head
or mocked up.
Hanging from walls
of whitewashed
washed out fake brick,
young
barmaid who sussed out old tricks
will your fill
glasses an inch from the lip,
and crammed
chock full of ice; it drips.
This sour
taste of sticky air is inside,
bitter tang
of spore on peeling paper
and outside
too many toy dogs.
Attached to hostile
hobbling one sticks,
skin scored
like perished tarmac,
all skid
marks, pocked with potholes,
sweaty
exhaust pipes puffing out vape,
up and down,
down and up - all traipse
ashen faced as pale as cinder flakes,
mittened whiskey
hands that shake,
gloved up
against the gone sun.
A stumbling
parade of criss-cross leads,
tumbleweed
feet in tangled duckweeds,
toss in trash
the scooped up debris,
Winter
hardens black bags into logs
clinging gritty
onto too many toy dogs.
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