yet another suicidal ideation day

worst Christmas ever, over, first time utterly alone

next dawn precision plans competing . . . how and where

some inner questioning re tidiest techniques

seems only right to leave less mess

but do you, can you really care? when no one cares for you

a barren, brutal world, rejecting, bereft of human hope

and yet — spineless, brainless, pointless you persists

even dully swallows vitamins

then takes note . . . god! that's absurd (you are) —

and that day passes, no escape still, no act, no death, no nothing done

darkness surges, long wakeful night of pain

and then comes dawn once more to kick you out of bed

you stumble forth, alive, uncertain why — for what?

for nothing, as winter sun spikes through grey morning clouds

and on the grim paved city street see thin young man

bleak mouth, black clad, black painted nails, sad eyes —

he's there with two big dogs

all three sprawled low, close by the dirty corner curb

ragged lettered cardboard sign propped up nearby states

"things aren't good" — for him, for them

you bend down, caress his pretty pets

confide your ugly, boring truth

that you're sorry, that you get it, things not good

that things . . . aren't good for you as well

your errant eyes meet his, you see his sudden tears

feel your own swelling forth once more —

just then bigger, darker dog leaps up

and suddenly you're being kissed!

full-on open mouth, first time since death

first time in last six years

a canine tongue right there

inside! not resisted, penetrating

inside your frowning lips, your sullen mouth

you have to smile, laugh, sigh

the man does too

a real true smile lights up

glows out on his thin lips

the bold dog grins and pants

wild wags his glossy upturned tail

as shyer, paler pet looks on

you forage in your ragged bag, dig out some hidden coins

a fancy chocolate bar is there as well

you hesitate then ask —

does he like chocolate? he says yes

vows not to share it with the pups

(chocolate so very bad for them)

you put the bar in his pale, black nailed hand

say merry Christmas, dude

head off swift, now crazy high

filled with his gift, their gift

gift that sad slut did solicit, burned for, unseemly sought

you're (briefly) salvaged, way up now

on shameful/silly/sweet cloud nine

***

image above from Rembrandt's Woman Bathing or A Woman Bathing in a Stream (c.1654) — probably modelled on Rembrandt's partner Hendrickje Stoffels