Willie Smith

Walking the Dog

Now that I am a disgusting old fuck diagnosed with Dropped Head Syndrome, exhibiting symptoms of Parkinsonism, but not yet worthy the title – my male gaze has severely shrunk.

I hear a young woman approaching, yakking on her phone how Di-Di suffered diarrhea this morning, frisking about the condo, squirting from the anus everywhere. As she passes close by on the sidewalk, I see she wears $500 pink running shoes with red-gold laces. She goes sockless. Shows ankles smooth as wings; nice; quite nice. Ankles ever in some way enticing.

The dog – one of those fox-faced Asian things that cost the price of a mink coat – lunges, snags my pantleg. He knows damn well I am looking at something I should not be looking at. He rears
back for the next attack, intent on sinking fangs into the meat of my calf, when Ms. Ankles yanks the chain, and Bowser jerks – gagging – out of my view.

“Jill and Bob an ITEM? – wow… well, yeah – he aced that job at Amazon. You bet I’d marry whatever bozo rolling in cyber dollies! In a heartbeat! Despite Jill admits he’s kind of a petaflop in the sack, I mean…”

Goldminer and Bowser drift from my hearing.

Think to myself (to whom else?), wobbling the last furlong to the doorstep:

Once I’m too wasted to walk, hafta hang around the house 24/7, my own ankles – nerves to each withered – will doubtless wax fat and putrid as bubonic toads.

Manage, back home – decay swept to the back of the mind – to belabor the bishop to the fresh memory of the phantom, floated above those red-gold laces, soothing the diseases of my soul.

If that hasn’t also already left the building.