The Dead

Someone said writing could be like dragging a dead dog
which makes me think of a former boss whose malapropism
in the midst of a dead boring meeting was a moment of delicious
delight—delight that could have been so much sweeter had I met
the eyes of one other person who’d gotten the joke but they
were all zoned or stoned or wishing to be stoned or run through
with a six-inch stiletto so now as I sit alone at my desk I laugh
out loud remembering that young punk rant that we were killing
his numbers by keeping patients in hospital too long and how he hated
to flog it with a dead horse. I don’t advocate cruelty to animals but
horses die and whether one flogs a dead horse or uses a dead horse
to flog a dead argument, the horse is none the worse for it. I have
a house full of horses including a live Sagittarius husband
whose yearly physical report includes a new limited warranty.
We tried to refuse it, to get a better offer but we’re stuck with it.
It’s cold now but he blankets himself and saunters the neighborhood
sometimes only making it to the dead end before turning home.