By Steven B. Fuson
You took his call; the door creaked open and a gaggle of soldiers, pig-farmers and elderly tourists milled aimlessly about our sanctuary, trampling our clothing with mud and feces.
I wallow in it of course. Why have I settled for mere survival, nourished only on the scraps you sporadically slop into my trough?
I sit alone now, languid; I remember the taste of your mouth, the knowledge of your breath. I wish that I could believe that I cannot live without it but that is simply not true. Am
I so inconsequential? Do I deserve to be of no consequence?
My identity exists only in the image reflected in the greasy water pail that you place carelessly next to my food.
You took his call; the door creaked open and a gaggle of soldiers, pig-farmers and elderly tourists milled aimlessly about our sanctuary, trampling our clothing with mud and feces.
I wallow in it of course. Why have I settled for mere survival, nourished only on the scraps you sporadically slop into my trough?
I sit alone now, languid; I remember the taste of your mouth, the knowledge of your breath. I wish that I could believe that I cannot live without it but that is simply not true. Am
I so inconsequential? Do I deserve to be of no consequence?
My identity exists only in the image reflected in the greasy water pail that you place carelessly next to my food.
Yowzah, Steve. I like . . .
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