the garlic bread end beckoned/murmuring that seven oven minutes at threefifty/would make it perfect/and so it was

as i munched i realized/that the frequency of nocturnal bathroom visits/was increasing/and the next visit to the urologist/might be dire/and naturally my hypochondriacal imagination/leapt forward to end-of-life issues/stark as the zipper-sound/of a body bag

dancing away from such morbid musings/i thought happily of the weekend now imminent/and the poetry I would hear/the friends I would see/and the meal after the reading

but for some bizarre reason/the image of a scottish terrier’s hindquarters/with a furiously wagging tail/tugging the tender flesh of the perineum hither and yon/popped into my head/and won’t unpop

time to go back to a bedpartnerless bed

where my garlic breath will not offend