if the quiche your dog ate
is fresh or not, it's been
in the snow for days, it
was awful, an that's why
we tossed it out the window.
It froze, and then the fucking
squirrels got at it, they
ate the crust, but even
the raccoons that shack up
in the sewer wouldn't
touch it, maybe they don't
do quiche, but they pluck
everything else from the trash,
the jellied ham, the rotting
zucchini, the box
of bisquick, I guess
we were hoping some
coyote might sniff it up
and drag it off and poison
the son of a bitch but I guess
that won't happen now,
seeing how your dog
wandered over here and
ate the whole thing, tin foil
pan and all, jesus, all that
brie and ham, parmesan,
onion and peppers,
I mean he wolfed it down
in frozen hunks, I don't
know how without breaking
his teeth, jesus, imagine
the ice chunks sliding down
his gullet the poor son of a bitch
but I say look, lady,
we're not running a
goddamned brasserie
here, it's a goddamned house,
a three-ring circus of
burnt pancake pans and
a sink full of cooked broccoli
and Kraft cheese whiz, scalded milk
and empty wild turkey pints--
it's serve yourself or suit
yourself--if your dog is
shitting up the carpet,
or puking lakes of yellow
cream, or just wishing
he were dead, his guts
bloated like a dead opossum
on the road, I don't give
a damn, he should have
picked the fucking
turkey tetrazini or the
pea soup or pork hocks,
but he made his bed, I
suggest he lay in it.
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