Joined to his guilt by bonds of matrimony

with a dog he called homily he left for the 24 hour vets

But he could still reclaim the black open road

Any time he cared to. Yet, these sweats,

and cheap dates with the lonely trees

the one night stand, that f$%#@*& vet nurse with Tourettes!

the wand and schedule of tides.

He needed to stay grounded, to focus

twin rings of compromised gold

a tarnished infinity

and trust wintered into dead leaves.

He fingered the gilt band

mindful it was choking, imprisoning his intrinsic self

but snug too, a fatal perfect fit

this mated pair of mismatched offal

discordant heart beats, this duo of fools bound by bonds tighter than rules

he turned to the band and “Up the fucking tempo boys!”

	he asked politely

and the little dog barked

just for fun. Meanwhile,	

Jesus has gone on strike – his crucifix in tow

And the golden band looks more and more like a collar.

       “Does that chafe?” the vet asked, sympathetically.

       And for a brief moment, he was young again.