He doesn’t call the children
young pups anymore; no longer
does he call them kids. Even when
he jokes (which tends to irritate his
arthritis), for example, “But what
of the youth of Peru?” he’s all con-
cerned, he swears he has to know
not only when but who. If some-
one deigns to answer, he thinks
he hears: “Nobody knows. Who
can say?” Or is it that only the
youth know, and that the secrets
are ostensibly under their protec-
tion, their jurisdiction? It is as it
should be, he knows he wants to
think. The purposes of utterances,
the language given off by singular
bodies and then that can be read
so loud and clear by such a large
and agitated crowd? Voices heard
by soldiers coming at him at an all-
too-menacing pace? Electricity-
riddled, nearly indecipherable
sounds that come by way of
megaphone? Are each of these
but meant to throw me off? he
wonders, milling about the few
distinguishable crowds. To
throw me off? As if I were a
bloodhound with such singular
focus and with distinct snarls
each of these throngs are none
but criminals who’ve stealthily
scattered all of the gutted or
brained parts of a dinner fish,
that has of course such a con-
centrated, penetrative stench,
so dense I’d learn to eat like
them, my brain so overtaken
by the smells of such a lazy
dinner. I’d use their humil-
iating, metallic sticks and
prongs, I’d sit upright, my
tailbone pressed out flat
into the spot that’s design-
ated mine, and we’d begin
a long and easy feast that
wends its way deep into
the night so that by the
time the last thin bone’s
been licked and my man-
ipulated senses have just
begun to come to, all the
rest of the guests have,
and with assistance, made
their ways down endless
hallways, being led ’round
just enough corners, some
going left, some going right
they’d have no idea at all in
the light of morning, at least
without their kindly servant,
how possibly to get back to
the grand hall. He makes a
quick survey of each plate
still sitting atop the mighty
table; not even one seems
to reveal a hint of what’s
just been done. And then
he makes a whiny run un-
derneath and down its
entire length – there isn’t
even a paltry scrap. It’s on-
ly then that this poor soldier
begins to see a bit, begins to
wake as if from one long
hungry dream. His jowls
begin to wobble this way
and that as he stops and
starts, darts left at just
about the same exact
moment that he darts
right, his eyes all a’fright
as his whine begins again
to be at first but barely
audible until the decibels
they rise along with the
pitch. Yes, only then he
sees the evening’s games
for what they’ve been,
and yet again: a set-up,
a fiendish ruse, that
hellish joke, the butt
of which was hunger,
and not just anyone’s,
his own. Exhausted,
his very bones, along
with those he thinks
he’s just ingested
grow ice cold, the
old whippet shivers
as he then slinks to-
ward a furnace that
is usually, even at
this late hour, filled
with yet some glow-
ing embers. And once
he’s there, a piece of
cloth that had been
hanging from his
mouth, a napkin,
really, he gently
drops upon the
rock surface of
the floor, just on
this side of the
hearth, and then
he lowers down
his thin, emacia-
ted body, eyes
almost already
fully closed.
