Miserable Little Gruff

m i s e r a b l e__ l i t t l e g r u f f

A curse from a blatant rain, soggy-box built refrain. Pulsating vividly & clearly in the stillness of a dozen birds. Passing through this drain-lake servitude and solace. Muddy floor mat welcoming you. The will. The bruise. The aggrandizement. The effort put forth in skidding amazement. The corpse in front & baby crying behind. Mother worrying sick & convulsing. The pulsing complex animal of nourishment and firm relenting arguments. Dragged into back porches. Rung the bell. Dinner time! Dinner yellll!! We're in the back in the rhubarb patch. Tip-toeing calamity. Toes cut & mud with carefree sun-bleed. Day of light spectacle happening. Gravel kicks up and spins. Finally, a foot up as we run. Gun it with legs in the air, about chest high. Calculating / counting our steps. About 75 to go.. "Be there soon Mom!" Calm the fuck down. My dirty fingers. My sneakers torn and adorned with duct-tape garnishment. My scraped shoe side for board slides on concrete parking blocks.. 2 aside each other. Red, blue. Whatever wax we choose. It slips. It's greasy & works. We spent the afternoon doing nothing that resembles work. "You boys get the hell over here!” Hutch has died. Our poor pooch Damn. Not now. Not this. That miserable little gruff. Knotted hair in a tuft, above his eyes. It should come as no surprise. We rarely remembered him. Just moping. Wallowing in our unkempt backyard.