Doctor Fist & His Faithful Companion

Walkt he, swaying, a filthy
halfempty glass bottle
clutched desperately in his
broad, meaty hand.
At his feet trots, simplistically,
a bull-dog, tongue dragging
languidly along the pavement.
He stops, drinks, & groans,
a terrible noise, & cries,
pointing at the mutt:
You’ve broke my back, you

The dog trots on blissfully:
he had sent it deaf years before.

Published in issue 4 of Shot Glass Journal.

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