The Daily Inkling prompt Slice of Life reminded me of a travelling girl I haven’t seen in ages.
The tent’s gone
it’s tourist season time
and those who walk beneath the bridge
cannot abide tents and dogs
and God knows what all else inside
so the police move them on.
She had six grown dogs and a batch of nine pups,
a cat with kittens and a pair of ferrets.
The boyfriend came and went but mostly went.
She had dogs and no front teeth
but enough rings you could hang curtains from her lips.
The pups, black, grey-spotted and lusty
were all spoken for. They always are, street punk dogs.
The mother was a standard street punk brown dog
with short bandy legs
but she spun a yarn the father was a wolf dog.
With grey spots.
She lent me a baby buggy once, for my dog,
to push him to the vet’s
after her pack had half-ripped the lights out of him, playing.
Offered to push him herself,
but I worried someone would steal the pups or the kittens or let the ferrets loose.
So I pushed a greyhound with blood pouring from a tear in his flank
in a baby buggy halfway across town,
and when I brought the buggy back, she’d gone.