oh my poor little creature
poor creature
you are too blithe
for your own misery,
you would let pus run rivers
from your fox’s ears so long as they heard
the faintest mumbles
of good,
boy.

you do not have sense
to whimper when I tug green scabs
from your belly.
You kiss me through
broken teeth.

We return you to your
home and through a screen
we see the frail
decrepitude that is your
(euphemism) mother
and while we
burn with indignation on your
behalf you
run blissly to her
lap

oh would that we all were so
sweet in our suffering
that we might feel relief of
pain as only a
multiplying of the
sufficient love
which we received even in our most broken
state
and that the
Bad People
proved to be only
elderly and
careless

we might all then slip
at our time through the back
gate and into the
arms of a
loving god who will
wash our wounds and say

oh my poor little creature
poor creature

photograph by Pete Millis