I Never Cleaned It Up - Dustin Vado

The first note blooms like a ripple in stains
of heady beer on stylish black jeans.

With an open heart, she is not mad;
I wipe fresh yeast from her leg to mine

drawing her snicker that sounds like eyes
rolling backwards down a hill to an end of fire.

Melodies that make me cry flares,
realization of the definite end of a tunnel

that guides potatoes through PVC into the frames
of heartless, conniving, obsolete machines.

If only I was solid state… it withstands blows
from friends that always bring up the dog…

The sheen of their grim sneers damps a bulb
and brings dreams so real I feel the spikes

in my throat  from the very iron maiden I locked
my heart in for safekeeping.

My jeans now carry the stain of transferred burden,
a color of dogs.  My dog.  My old dog.  My old dead dog

that still clacks through the house on long nails
in the middle of late nights when it is too cold and lonely

even for him, and barges his way through my door
to greet me with whapping happiness I took for granted.

When I hear that first ripple… every single time
as stone falls to puddle and the fur has a chance

to expand to it’s full likeness, I get spikes in my lungs
and spew blood from my nose alongside the stains

he left in my room, and on my jeans, a color
I never cleaned up.