The Flavors of Despair

Every New Year, much like this one,

He would take the dog outside.

Together, they would discuss things:

How the universe didn’t exist

Before she came along,

How it was natural to hide a man’s

True feelings about government,

Until the demons took over,

How crying late into evening,

Into a good dark bourbon

Used to be enough. The dog

Had stories, too, but chose

To wait, knowing these things

Had to be let out, in order

For the three of them to go on.

He went on: When she fell,

Almost a year ago now,

His heart went into hibernation.

No one knew the flavors of despair

He would turn to in the middle

Of any given night. Once,

While shelling pistachios

By the light of his computer screen,

He’d considered it—what Chandler

Called The Big Sleep—

Then looked over at her, resting

In the oversized chair, her hand

On their dog’s belly, stroking

The two of them into contentment,

And he’d decided to stay on.

Which brings us here, into

The wilderness of said universe.

God’s off playing a jazz club

In another galaxy, where

The clientele appreciates good sax

From pros. Sometimes it’s like

They’re on their own these days,

The three of them. The old briar,

Once lit, is a signal—as convincing

As the fire that began the affair—

About how far they’ve come

In perfecting and balancing the tale.

They look at the morning fog. Clearly,

Someone important is about to tweet magic.

Clearly, spring is just around the corner.

They have decided to change

The dog’s name to Attila. The neighbors

Are beginning to talk. Attila breathes in

The Syrian Latakia and Attila sleeps.