Flesh It Out

I was all muffled inside his head either way:

The rotting wood smell coming off the porch.

The rotting porch smell, coming from his wood.

The steady gasps of a sick dog breathing.

Like a lamb bleating under mud.

A bread bag of roach-weed, a 3-day shadow, a slick new look.

A little crazy, a little cool.

Flossed up, before dark. Plaque free and ready for the stiffs.

Magic fingers. They said he had magic fingers.