Moe

the last dog
beat me down
with his barking,
at the television,
the door, a fly
circling the room.
he spent his life
with his incessant,
and indiscriminate
chewing of everything
not his. sometimes
he would have the torn
half of a twenty
dollar bill hanging
from his mouth, or
a pair of someone's
underwear, sometimes
a shoe strap, or
a pair of sunglases
that he found on
the dining room table.
he couldn't drink
milk, it might
as well of been
tequila and he would
be bent over the rug
tossing his cookies,
trying to shake the
cobwebs out of his
little daschund mind.
wild and crazy moe,
yeah, i miss him.