Inspired by a good friend Tammy of Tmezpoetry.
Someone throw some bones,
but use your good arm or else save them,
for soup maybe or… the birds,
and not like the butcher’s begrudging
contribution of a half smile,
half pull yerself together,
half fight yer for it type of tidbit
to a pleading, begging, growling
disease when the black dog bites.
Usually I get skinny
pieces depending on the time of day,
covered with sawdust and grit
or sinews dangling like forgotten relatives –
the spare parts left behind –
blue mould already at the next stop
on the journey of spiritual awakening
for the animal it never was.
The paucity of concern
is often greater than the inedible
or indigestible morsel; it would not
bind wounds or hold
life within a blood supply –
annexed like my spirit’s
bloodless, rancid cells
devoid of fight, always hoping
for somebody to throw some bones,
to make this palatable,
and aspects of life to be amusing again
once we release it to the chase
when the black dog barks.