Song for a Greyhound
  JM Francheteau

Some gristled bastard at the track said,
“When you're over words,
count that greyhound's ribs.”

The hound in question,
he gesticulated at with his Pabst,
was loping low and lastly,

and it made me so sad,
that poor fucker,
I just wanted to write a love song to the tongue
flapping out the side of his face,

and the legs swinging ugly
and irregular, a gait
like the rusted old contraption that banged away
by the porch, where
as a child I bloodied up my fingertips
on my uncle's banjo strings.

Eyes froth wild, air sawing runnels in his lungs;
wonder if that mutt ran for love or fear.
I never could play for shit,
I couldn't say for sure,

could only cash out my bet against him,
buy my instrument out of hock.

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