BY MICHELE HERMAN |
I take the dog for a walk
but he’s too old and stiff
so I gather him in my arms
and take myself for a walk,
one hand forming the tray
he likes to rest his front paws
on, the other cradling
his threadbare Dachshund chest
as I survey last night’s damage
to the Gansevoort meat
market, excuse me —
we’re supposed to call it
the “meatpacking district.”
This week’s fashion: sheets
of plywood. This week’s
new sound: screw
guns. Crews of laborers
on every block speaking
languages of the less lucky
nations of our globe paid
day wages to protect
Helmut Lang and Christian
Louboutin and their three
hundred dollar hoodies,
eight hundred dollar shoes.
The dog has no meat left
on him. Through his ribs
I feel the labor of his
murmuring heart, trying
to keep one beat ahead
of the blood leaking out.
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