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.