The Black Dog Meets the Devil
Freeform poetry from the introspective collection, Black Dog, that runs with a folkloric figure that is often associated with misfortune and used as a metaphor for depression. Black Dog looks at this figure and gives him a voice, letting him bark back at a society that's already made up its mind about him.
They say fate is
the empty span,
the brittle gap
between
then
and now,
that’s why it’s called a
leap of fate.
"That’s not what it’s called"
said the Black Goat, at the crossroads
of his patience.
He had lost count of the souls
he had met, in need, on this dim corner
but could not recall meeting
a soul so lost
or a soul so in need
of a fucking clue
as the Black Dog.
The Black Dog had just been glad
to share the night
now he was expected
to want something.
He’d only ever known how to be grateful.
"If you could have anything, right now, what would it be?"
Time slurs
space cracks
and, for an instant, his face
falls.
Fate is the open door
in which the Black Dog stands
procrastinating.
The Devil plays with idle hands
because doing nothing drives him fucking nuts
and the Dog sure was something
in need of doing.
In the end, he took the Black Dog
round the corner by the scruff
and got stuck in
to the rut
that the Dog had worked himself into,
showed him his horns
made him see stars turned upside down.
The Black Dog, back against the wall
then chest against the dirt,
his tail anywhere
but between his legs,
howled his want at last.
The Black Goat let him have it.