=Mr. Ned=

Life is pretty terrible.

It’s like being strangled with a shoelace

for sixty or seventy years.

And if you try to plant

a bullet in your brain

they call you insane.

Then it’s a matter of pills and jabber

until you finally convince them

you’ve given up horticulture.

In the corner of my eye

there is a starving dog.

(You have one, too)

He sits there on his bony haunches

with his long hot tongue lolling out.

His sparse yellow fur is no doubt

crawling with fleas.

He does not bother scratching.

He is waiting for me to die.

He is so lean you can count his ribs.

I have three decades or so left.

It’s going to be a long wait

for both of us.

I have decided to think of him

as a pet.

He never comes when called.

He just sits there.

I’ve grown quite used to it.

I have even given him a name.

Mr. Ned.

I know if I throw a stone at him

he won’t budge.
If it hits him,
it will bounce off
and he'll just sit there.

He is my dog.
He knows it.

He has no one else to love him.