The man with the dog face.

Oh, lovers.
It is my turn again.
The man with the dog face stands
outside my door.
His hands are clenched at his sides.
He yells,
“NO, DON’T DROP!”
“NO, DON’T DROP!”
“NO, DON’T DROP!”
“NO, DON’T DROP!”
I do not want to see him.
I creep back into the dark of my room
and close my eyes.
I know him too well.
I love him too much.

Oh, lovers.
Long ago, he and I were friends.
Long ago, we would walk the streets
of our town in light and in dark.
Hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against
the rain and the wind, we would wander.
Sometimes we would sit on the curb
under the streetlight and talk.
We would share a cigarette and, if fortune
allowed, a bottle of wine.
We would wonder about many things.
We once wondered what it would be like to live
in a world where the rain would fall from the sky
until the clouds were dry and the earth was full
to soaking and then the rain would fall up from
the earth to fill the clouds again.
Sometimes we would wonder silently,
our breathing the only sound passing between us.
Sometimes we would rant
like excited children about nothing.
Then we would laugh.
Then we would part.
This went on for the long time I knew him.
And then, he met her.

Oh, lovers.
I don’t know where he met her, or when.
I saw him less and less, I alone continued
the wanderings and wonderings.
I alone would sit by the side of the road
and smoke and drink.
I alone would peer into the depth of the night,
my wonderings reduced by half.
I would see him now and then, on his way to her.
He would tell me about her.
He would tell me about them.
I would listen and nod and he would walk on.
He would walk on until he became a phantom
in the night.
He would walk on until he came to her door.

Oh, lovers.
He would sit with her at night on her back porch,
his head in her lap, and tell her about the stars.
She would stroke his head and tell him nothing.
He would sit before the fire and read to her.
She would sit before the fire and pretend to listen.
They would sit cross legged on the floor, facing each other,
holding hands and he would tell her of the world in her eyes.
She would pretend she was blind.
He would bare his soul to her.
She would take it and not let him have it back.
She drove him mad.

Oh, lovers.
Sometimes, in his madness,
he would walk to her door and she would not
let him in.
He would stand there for hours,
until his legs would ache
and he could stand no more.
Then he would sit, his back against her door,
his knees to his chin, arms wrapped around his legs
and bury his head.
He would sit there until his clothes
and the ground beneath him were soaked
with his tears and his piss.
Then he would walk home.
He would not be seen for days.
Then, he would emerge, showered, shaven,
clean clothes, but carrying the air of cigarettes
and whiskey.
He would walk, head high, through town,
stop to buy her flowers and walk to her door.
Sometimes, she would let him in.

Oh, lovers.
Sometimes, she would let him in.
Sometimes, she would let him make love with her.
He would rage and roil and battle the world
between her glass thighs.
She would lay, almost motionless, her hands
locked behind his neck.
She would whisper to him.
“I will never love you,” she whispered.
“I love myself more than you could ever love me,” she whispered.
“Faster… harder,” she whispered.
He would say nothing.
He would make her come.
Sometimes, he would come.
Sometimes, he would cry.
Sometimes, he would pass out and awake
in the night alone, shivering,
wrapped in the sheet soaked
with their sweat and his tears.
He would leave her bed and find her sitting
naked in the unlit kitchen, drinking coffee
and smoking cigarettes, looking at the night
through the window.
She would say nothing.
He would leave.

Oh, lovers.
How long this did go on.
How many trips to her door.
How he did suffer.
Then one night he went to her door
and she was gone.
One night, he went to her door
and she was not there.
One night, he went to her door and the door stood open
to an empty house.
One night, the husk that was his soul
was taken by the wind that blew through her empty place.
One night, the world around him disappeared
and out beyond him, there was nothing.

Oh, lovers.
He did not know who to be.
He became no one.
He did not know what to be.
He became nothing.
He had to be something.
He became a tree, and would stand in the town,
arms outstretched, face to the sky.
He could not be a tree.
He became the wind, and would blow
around corners and in the alleys.
He could not be the wind.
He became the moon,
blank white face staring at the town, unyielding.
He could not be the moon.
He put on the face of a dog
and became the man with the dog face.
He became the man with the dog face
who would wander the town.
He would wander the town, from door to door, and stand,
hands clenched at his sides and yell,
“NO, DON’T DROP!”
“NO, DON’T DROP!”
“NO, DON’T DROP!”
“NO, DON’T DROP!”

Oh, lovers.
It is my turn again.
The man with the dog face stands
outside my door.
His hands are clenched at his sides.
He yells,
“NO, DON’T DROP!”
“NO, DON’T DROP!”
“NO, DON’T DROP!”
“NO, DON’T DROP!”
I do not want to see him.
I creep back into the dark of my room
and close my eyes.
I know him too well.
I love him too much.