Honeysuckle

The honeysuckle is glowing

In the early dark of night.

It lines the complete length of the canal

Where I am walking my dogs.

The softly luminescent trumpet flowers

En masse

Between the abandoned railroad tracks

And the stone edge of the canal’s wall.

The odour of the honeysuckle

Fills me

Washing out the day

The boredom of work

The stress that is my life

The uncertainty of tomorrow.

It is all bathed away

By thousands of white and yellow florets

Singing.

On the walk back home

I see the shadow of my smallest dog

Go down to the ground

And start rolling and squirming.

I shout at him!

It can only mean one thing

And it ain’t good.

Believe me

I have experience with these two dogs.

He runs from me

And yet I know that it is true.

Inbetween the sweetness of the honeysuckle

I am reeled by the futid smell

Of shit.

On the way home

People tell me how cute

My dogs are.

I wait for them to catch a whiff

And see if they think that they are still so.

I arrive home

And immediately start a bath.

Clover and Jasper

Freak when they smell Elie.

The smell fills the house.

I throw the little bastard

Into the tub

And get in close so that I can wash him.

I am thankful that I won’t be

Doing this twice tonight...

Because that has happened!

And I have to wonder

As I wash this wretched shit

Out of Elie’s fur

What ludicrousy

Goes through a dogs mind

On a new summer eve

To make the decision

To roll around in a pile of shit

Instead of enjoying the surrounding

Warm scent of honeysuckle?