All my thoughts are strays -- mongrels that have slipped the chain to wander the grey hills and valleys of a restless mind seeking some strange sustenance. Fleabag memories, mostly of her, make me itch all night.
But mutts like me prefer domestication. We hear the coyote's restive call but would rather mow the lawn than fall drunk down a stranger's stairs or wake sick in the late morn amid jackals and chupacabras, wondering where the night went.
This dog's good heart hunts hearth and home, knows its place cradled by familiar thighs, nuzzling the sweet breasts and belly of a thousand warm nights.
Righteous nose to the ground, this old dog seeks to spark the night and make it holy.