Last of the Red Hot Lovers

Last night my eight year old cat Winnie,
showing her aversion to compartmentalizing,
knocked the glass of wine into my glass of
beer with her carefree tail and I’d just left
my friend Debbie’s house where her two dogs,
Ginger and Snoopy, came in from the yard after
rolling in shit, smiling with the radiant joy of deliverance.
That morning Jeff, the manager at the mobile home park
I was going to move into told me there were “no pets allowed,”
just people so concerned with keeping their wine and beer and
shit separate they’ll use the best of their best minds to build a
‘Manhattan Project’ or defend a ‘Dissertation’ where there are
probably “no pets allowed.” Like my grandmother always said,
“You don’t need to lead a horse to water, they can find their own way,”
it’s the people in the Chevy, with the bible and road map in their lap,
pulling into the gas station for directions that are always getting lost.