HERE’S HOPING GIZMO WON’T BECOME MINCEMEAT (poem)

HERE’S HOPING GIZMO
WON’T BECOME MINCEMEAT

Walking in, I noticed
the sign. The sad sign.
A desperate plea.
And sort of hopeless.
But off all places,
I thought. A bar?
My bar? This bar.
Who would post a lost
dog notice on the door?
Fuckers in this joint
wouldn't know nothing
from a lost dog.
Take a look inside:
We’re three or four rungs
above skid row.
But forget all that.
Out of respect
for this Xeroxed
'lil guy staring
at me, I read the
post; got
the lowdown.
Squishy face;
Answers to 'Gizmo';
frantic owners
begging to help
them ‘find our
little guy please’;
the whole nine;
But God, this dog looked
so douchey. Sort of like
he prance around with a
ribbon and a little bell.
Wandering alone
around here, he'd be a
goner for sure.
Mincemeat. But,
like everything else,
life goes on.
Three hours, two shots,
four beers and one slice
later I leave and
make my way home.
As I walk inside, I hear
a dog bark somewhere
and I swear to Jesus
I think of Gizmo. And
then I think
he’s a goner.
Mincemeat for sure.