That Old White Dog

(Anthropomorphizing a very dark day to keep from cutting things short like a sucker.)

That old white dog keeps comin' around

with his fur moldy beige & his tail on the ground.

Eyes muddy & red, gait shaggy & slow

smellin' like old newspapers dragged through the snow.

Voice real hoarse & a bark real mean

most inconsiderate bastard that's ever been seen.

He never asks for permission or considers your time

moves in your headspace & don't pay a damn dime.

Passes gas on your pillow & pees in your shoe

and that's just the start of the things he will do.

He leaves fleas in the bathtub & hair on the soap

his bed's unmade - he has snot in his throat.

He pays no rent & he sleeps all day

so you try to sneak by him to go on your way

but he rolls over, farts, opens one eye to see

and gives you a look that says, "really? you tried me?".

He shoos you in the kitchen to go get him a snack

what you bring, he gobbles down, then just sends you right back.

While filling his belly you pass by a glass

and begin to feel bad 'bout the shape of your . . .

Ask him no questions  -  cause he always lies &

he's only happy the harder you cry.

He yodels long stories about times that you failed

and reminds you of times when your heart was impaled

bewailed, derailed, jailed, assailed

then he wraps up by offering you a cocktail.

He'll howl that he is your only real friend

growl, you'd be wasting your time in the gym

warn you that chances in your life are slim

make you refer to yourself using damned pseudonyms

like desperate & saggy, old & morose,

these are only a few of the names that the oaf has you calling yourself by the end of the day

life becomes a cliche, fed by his foul play,

as your well-being sinks like an ego souffle.

He won't leave your side - he sits right by your feet

his smoker's breath moldy and fowl like old meat.

He bleats and excretes the smell of defeat

and you can't quell that smell so you're stuck on repeat.

Flagellating yourself in attempts to atone

as your heart grows tired of the pendulous bones

that are kept in the closet that shudders and groans

in your monochrome biome that's never shalom.

He says, "just take a moment to shutter your eyes."

& you listen to rank, snortled, fowl lullabies

that he sighs, & he cries, as he lies, & he tries,

to get you to say all your final goodbyes.

And if you let him get the damned microphone

Oh he'll have the last word - & then leave you alone

grinning around the remains of your bones

as he carries them off to the next sucker's home.