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.