augury doggerel

Friday, July 25, 2003


The Dogs of Zeus met in a bus stop tonight. We each gave our sign � the twist of an umbrella, a slow sigh that smells of mint, a bus schedule read backwards, a circle wiped clockwise and counterclockwise on the glass, and, for me, bristles rubbed back to front, water popping.

The one new one, the one with rubber boots and a wooden umbrella, stood as if she'd never seen a million volts jump from nothing. We counted the seconds from the flash and multiplied to determine (you know the constant) exactly how long we would live. The man who made circles on the glass startled at the result and put away a handful of keys. I stroked my head again.


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