XIV.
When the creek runs dry
metaphorically speaking
proverbially speaking
paraphernalially speaking
nothing is fun.
And he
angry
sulky
like a teenager
deprived of a Friday night lay
stalks
in and out of company
looking for
snort
blow
rhyme
reason
in the form of
things that I
do not dare
to write out
for you to read.
And when
the metaphorical
proverbial
paraphernalial
creek
stops flowing
he gets mean
and devious
and likes to cause
some chaos
in between naps
and snaps
of impatient fingers
and impatient hips
and impatient lips.
So when he calls
his old dog,
fully expecting her to come
running
obedient
loyal
and ever-predictable
and she
is too busy
with bright colors
and rainbows
and shagging the hippie
that she pretends
is special
he
decides
it is time
to play
a little dirty.
With sugar-coated lips
its not quite a lie
but when he promises things
with the intention
of hurting
and she
a glutton
for attention
acceptance
'love'
concedes
to 'home'
'love'
'acceptance'
he
is a winner.
Always
always
always
the winner.
And they play in the
metaphorically
proverbially
paraphernalially
dry creekbed
and she
has no way to know
if she can swim
when the tide comes.