Things were going wrong.
Dogs roamed the streets in packs,
even rode the local trains across the city.
I took my violin, a can opener, two lipsticks, and a pistol
and joined them.
The quarter moon at night was like a dropped ice cream cone,
or the fat on a steak.
How we howled for it!
How we bargained, lunged, begged!
The moon was too far removed, and too composed to reward us,
and yet we still loved her,
Men came in special trucks to collect us,
but we ran!
We knew the way through every abandoned building and vacant lot.
We knew who would help us and who would shoot us.
We knew who we could steal from,
and who knew our language.
I abandoned my former life entirely except for one thing--
I had to have books.
I would creep into the public library to curl up with a novel,
and if anyone disturbed me I would show my teeth and snarl.
Sometimes a man wouldn't leave me alone.
I would leave,
and he would leave,
and then my pack would follow and kill.
I told the dogs, did you know that I was once a debutante?
Did you know that I come from privilege and a desirable address?
That was ages ago.
Now I throw up where I stand,
and make no apologies.
I wonder what would happen if I showed up at the old mock Tudor now?
I have fleas and a chunk missing from one ear.
I frankly stink, and I eat without regard to ingredient labels or fad diets,
but I am loved and sleep like the righteous every night.
Things are going well.
Society is breaking down.
We come around every night and tip over the trash bins.
Our males mark the yards a little further in from the alley every time.
I have a pistol,
and may write a novel--
a paper one,
independent of any internet or e-commerce,
written in Dog.
You are my target audience.
The moon is almost down to nothing,
and we are coming, coming for you.
In the end, there will only be our white teeth,
lined up like priests
except without mercy,
without a forgiving Christ in reserve for emergencies.