EXCUSES

No one likes excuses. So how about this:

On the first day, I found a dog in the park. A talking dog. He told me all sorts of things... what a bone feels like between the teeth... the proper way to howl when hungry... how hard it is to lift four legs (plus a tail) out of bed in the morning. Yeah yeah. I said. That's nothing.

On the second day, I found a dead bird in the street. The wings were still spread - as if it knew the truck was coming, but just wasn't fast enough. My mom might say that's tough luck. I'd say that's poor diet and exercise.

On the third day, everyone heard a buzzing. This time, it wasn't the fucking kids across the street pulling the fire alarm.

On the fourth day, I tried to break the staircase.

Fifth, I went to the bathroom with a book.

Sixth. I don't know what I did. Something cruel, I think.

Rain. Always rain on the seventh day. The bums sleep on the sidewalk. People drop nickels into gutter. Did I mention the umbrella skeletons laying around here? The wind rips them to shreads.

Eighth. Hah. Fuck you and your western calender. There is an eighth day. And guess what: nothing happens. Just look at me, I went to all the trouble to create an eighth day, but now I don't know what to do with it. It's dangling there. Like a preposition.