Man’s Best Friend
You showed up again
out of the blue.
Your shaggy parasitic black fur
a blight on my hearth-rug.
You turned your wet nose up
at the Tescos own brand dog food.
Barked to say your hunger
would be satisfied with nothing
until you had devoured the very sun.
Christ, you smell.
Snarling at my friends,
humping every leg in sight
until you’ve got me to yourself.
Well done. You win.
And when you drag your stinking arse
away again
this empty house will echo with your howls.
I’ll scrub the filthy dishes
and sit beside the ‘phone
you disconnected.
Paul Vaughan lives in Yorkshire. His work has previously appeared in Prole, Agenda, Poetry Salzburg, Frogmore Papers, Picaroon Poetry and Obsessed with Pipework, among others. He is also chief editor of the e-zine Algebra of Owls.