JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

He calls me Lady
but I’m a man
the shallow pit he calls my home
smells of buried bones
and other Ladies’ urine
and the urine of the fleas
and ticks
that day by blistery day
gnawed the ears of bygone tenants
whose urge for freedom stangled
them around the tree, or sent
them racing to carrion, hurtling
shockingly back on the pavement
outside the broken rusting gate

 

Weekdays bore by on
bread and water but when
the Sabbath guests arrive
to sup, I am the belle
of the parlour,
performing chicken liver
tricks, bony handstands,
marie biscuit pirrouettes
singing falsetto doggy arias
in a yelping, barking
cheesecake howl

In my own way
I love him too
and snuggle up into his armpit
lick his chin, smell his stubbly embrace
and from my pit I watch him
making jokes, slapping backs,
tripping others up

 

The day he went away
not to return
my head he scratched
my nose he kissed
my tail he pulled.