Southern Comfort

1.

Her left foot is connected to malleoli from 
which lithe ankle bones ascend like skyscrapers
high past femur and quads and up, up, up 
to her most secret places where her weiner dog, 
Gizmo, resides. Habitual in hunger he swallows a GLP
pill downtown and starves to death.
He doesn’t eat much in the first place, whether at 
McDonald’s or Little Five Points’ Roosters Ice Cream.
I love her ankle bones.  Proceeding to gnaw with
my toothless snarl and nibble, I’m left with two
perfectly formed big toes named Lucy and Ricky,
and play joyous second-line on a miniature bass drum
with each, down some seedy street in New Orleans,
a trombone poking me in the ass.

2.

What bone made us walk? We wrote to our parents
after rolling in the sack four fisted with Jim Beam
in one hand, and Southern Comfort in the other.
We never laid the whiskey on the bedside table.
She dreamed of weiner dogs in her sleep,
and I bought her one fucker entering puberty,
which was ideal because the missus didn’t want
a puppy.  Neither did I.  I wished for a cat.
Our last night we turned on Christmas lights and
I Walk On Gilded Splinters, and after portobello
frittatas with leeks and tarragon we put away
our alcohol to spice things further—made love
for the first time.  We never had it so good, again.