ollie in poetry

the dog’s messed-up but we’re buddies.
if he wasn’t messed up
and I wasn’t messed up
we never woulda met
so it’s good that we’re imperfect.

the dog shits himself all the time
rarely the day goes by
when one of us isn’t
cleaning his ass with antiseptic wipes
in the middle of the fucking night
because his anxiety loose stools
stick to woolen fur on his little dog rear
and really
how is that any different
than one of my exes
waking up to the screams of my nightmares?
Christ, you know, it isn’t
so get with it
it’s good that we’re imperfect
we compliment each other.

the little terror
if my mom’s out of town
or you’re driving in the car with him alone
he gets himself so worked up and nervous
he’ll just start throwing up foam
I reckon that’s how his was abandoned once
how the streets of Frankfort were his home
before the humane society found him
and we got him from there
flecks of spittle in his hair
because he’s panicked someone’s leaving him again
and like
yeah.
That’s how I feel too all the time.
I just vomit jokes and rage instead.
Because I’m a human
with more meat in my head.
But I understand him
and he understands me
even if he has to piss twenty fucking times a day
and he gives my pop fleas
he’s Ollie.

And he’s at least as fucked up as me
I guess that makes us family.