Tyler R. Martin
My dog, with a dead bird in his mouth, was waiting for me
This morning on the stoop of my home’s back door.
I stood in the doorway, waiting to let him in, hung over,
Bleary eyed, still naked at six AM, drowsy and half asleep,
Desperately wanting him in the house so I could grab
Another hour of sleep without fear of him pissing on my floor.
And there he was, staring up at me, ears up, tail wagging,
Dead bird in his mouth and big blue eyes popping from
Their sockets with excitement. “Put it down!” I told him,
“Fuck you,” his eyes responded, I looked down at him,
Dead bird in his mouth, gray sloberry feathers hanging from
His jowls, tail wagging very rapidly. “My bird,” his eyes said.
Fuck it, I lit a cigarette and let him and his dead bird inside,
Head high, tail wagging, he trotted into the house, almost skipping
Towards my bedroom to show his prize to the hungover blonde
Still comatose in my bed. I sat at my kitchen table smoking,
Head back against the back of the chair blowing plumes of smoke
Into the stagnant air and waited for the inevitable screams.
bourbon, cigarettes and syllables 