DOG EATS BIRD
The universe is not asleep at the wheel.
It’s eyes are wide open always.
Like Old St. Nick it’s watching and knows
when I've been bad or good...
When I've done what I’ve done
for all the wrong reasons. And so,
metaphorically speaking, I'm back on the street
with my mangy mutt at my side
panhandling my way through the day
with an attitude of entitlement
as the chip on my shoulder, hoping
to make enough so I can fill my belly
before sundown. And as luck would have it
my upturned hat on the seedy sidewalk
is brimming with loose change and crumpled bills.
And so I go and buy the hen on the spit
in the window I’ve been eyeing all day long
turning in it own juices. And having made
that purchase I go to sit down to make
a feast of the fowl with my mouth swimming
in its own saliva, and I turn my back for a moment,
just a moment, and that’s when the universe
steps in, and like the Grinch, steals
my Christmas right out from under me
by having my own damn dog eat the bird.
That’s the wrap on the wrist I’ve had coming
for all the wrongdoing I’ve done
that I’ve paid no never mind to.
Yes, the universe is awake at the wheel—
and will only give me my just desserts and no
dinner
until I’ve finally done some good for goodness’
sake.
