She asked of my Thanksgiving
but clearly sought to fish.
I pried myself into the shower
and headed for a familiar stage
across the trusty Hudson.
The script was slightly modified.
For the first hour she rambled
about her new French bulldog
as it tried to nibble on my groin
through the blanket covering us on the couch.
"This is Jack," she proclaimed with motherly pride
as I cringed at the canine name's irony.
"She's a rescue dog," she bragged
but I knew who was being saved.
Details of crates, eating feces to hide it
and being bred for financial gain
dripped from her living room walls
as I tried to watch a childhood Christmas film
while waiting for the wine to take hold.
At first I'd declined it, but the dog-talk
drove me to the corkscrew.
Our eyelids gained wait
so we ventured to the place where she sleeps
that's mostly made of pillows and wood.
"Don't untuck the sheets," she scolded
as I tried to free my feet.
It was Hell as I'd remembered.
It was unforgivable sin.
A poster in her bathroom
purchased in Massachusetts
made me swerve my stream.
The straddling was pleasant
until Jack howled through the door.
"What about your neighbors?"
"I pay rent. Who cares?"
I did, and urged her to allow
her charge to enter.
That was my second mistake.
The pooch climbed into the bed
though it feigned a need for lifting
when the sofa was our setting.
Commands were whispered my way
as the dog ignored her orders.
I felt a cold nose behind me
and lost it all
though not due to the grape.
So we did
and she put on her pajamas
and watched some late-night television
as I tripped over a garden hose
in her landlord's driveway.