That dog sprang from the door like a greyhound. It's some sort of black lab or something, a house dog, a pet. And that awful child accompanied it. It, he, threw a tennis ball while I smoked a stale cigarette and tried to enjoy it, myself, this. The lab, dog, went running as a speeding car followed close at its side. The car, child, dog, had things to do. My cilia grew evermore tiresome. It was a night too cold for a night like this.
The dog got its ball. The car backed halfway up down the block. Into a spot just big enough. And I would wake up wanting water.
No comments:
Post a Comment