We acquaint ourselves with asphalt, our ashy knees
and skin the thirsty dreams of the Sahara,
our ripped jeans
not so much the fashion statement of a causeless
but a fashioned statement, the piety of never
having a prayer. The dog thinks it’s a game;
the inebriants are Pavlov’s
summons for treats (you learn quickly
of the handcuff fetish, the intimacy
of a loaded glock, and that the belldoes indeed toll for thee). “Here boy,” a white man whistles at me
somewhere in the recesses
of my exile.
“You and my dog are the same color,
and I just thought…” My friend could see all
the colors. Fifteen minutes wasted,
and the dog’s tail hangs limp at its loss.