Cano the Dirty Dog

Cano the Dirty Dog sits
in the breakroom, eating
someone else's sandwich,
dreaming about
an unmade bed, and one third
of a bottle of
Jose Cuervo.

Cano the Dirty Dog lurks
in the lobby, shaking
loose change from those
large wooden boxes
planning for
retirement to dominoes
and scratch tickets.

I have a dozen jobs
and less than
two hundred dollars,
but I vaguely remember
that categorical imperative -
and I'm going to
write a novel.

Cano the Dirty Dog hides
in the boiler room, trying
on everyone's overcoats.
Meanwhile, the rector
and a gaggle of deacons
shovel his share
of the blizzard.

Cano the Drity dog has
neither neck nor thighs: his
squishy, hairy back slopes
from his cranium
to his tibiae.
He pretends not to hear
the little he understands.

I have gained back just ten
of the thirty pounds I lost.
One of my chins is
barely visible when
I am clean-shaven.
I am also very tall, and people
say I have beautiful eyes.

Cano the Dirty Dog views
this cold world through
mint-tinted, snot-crusted,
milk bottle glasses.
He is sweeping rose petals
and rice from the aisle:
a hearse is about to arrive.

I tell Cano the Dirty Dog
that he had to hurry -
but I'm just bringing him
a message from the boss,
"Somebody big is about to be buried:
someday, that somebody big will be me."
Cano stops sweeping, and grins.