Do you know me?  I mean in the sense that
I think I know you?  You talk.  You tell me 
what you want and where you want it...
but do you?
Or do you know the way to make me laugh and
do it?

Small black bitch, barely there, you crawled, cunning,
up under my chin and I didn't sleep for smiling back,
and feared to crush you.  Next night,
when you began to chew,
I almost wanted to.

Since then you live in some untouched part of me
that's rarely aired.  Like some part
of you that rolled in fish, today.  
Toujours Poopy.

Leafy baggage; twiggy hair that poodledom forgot.
Ganglady; gamine; heedless fret... 
(Are you drunk again?)
Footbiter, dancer, pleasant nag.
Poopy grey dog in hair and mind.

Do you know me?  Can you nearly talk?  Are you
from some other Place?
You're not human, you know.
Not yet.
Tomorrow.


(And tell me what you drink.
and who makes it.
and is there any
left.)

©  Copyright, 2000; Malcolm Beckett