By Michael Haeflinger
I strangled a hyperactive poodle with a tube sock
in his mouth. Turned out to be a rubber
glove and his entrails were simply seafood.
When the moment finally came, we didn’t bring it up.
The cats ate the guts and I re-tied my shoe,
but we were running out of time.
We didn’t call it anything: not even the end.
The men with the cameras wouldn’t find us
under the house. To us it was a razor wire trap.
To everyone else, shadows and music they swore
they recognized. The poodle bit clean through me
but it didn’t hurt. That was just something we did.
Clutching at Straws 