Breathless

It was the dog in me.

Again.

No, no, no- I don't bite,
nor bone any ol' bitch in heat.
That's the wrong track entirely.

The pup in me, I should say.

It wasn't the face licking,
muddy-pawed, gleeful greeting,
but the knit brow and whimper
when she'd her mind
on larger fish to be fried,
was tired and my little canine brain
was too damned dense
to comprehend this.

The Lady was put off, I was put out
and that left me tramping along
beneath an incredibly clear sapphire
early evening sky with crescent/Venus combo-
missing her like the dickens.

It seemed to make sense
to enter a local pub,
drink a few beers
and watch football.

A guy was lamenting
to his father in law
about the over-porous
UCLA Bruins defense.
We exchanged a few comments,
watched and sipped patiently.
I like people.

Later on four older regulars
were huddled at the bars elbow
and the bartender,
apropos of nothing,
announced,
"If I could be anyone
it would be Hugh Hefner!"

I harrumphed inwardly.
Truly fucking lame.

A short haired brunette
in her fifties argued that she
could only imagine his life
as superficial and containing
no uncertain amounts of pathos.

I chimed in, " I agree.
It's fundamentally,
deeply shallow."

Someone introduced everyone.
A few moments after
the brunette, Mo, said,
" You know who you look like?
Jean Paul Belmondo."

I arched an eyebrow.

A guy chimed in,
" That's before your time."

" No, I think I know who she means.
New Wave French cinema
of the late 50's and early 60's...
Breathless right?"

"Yes"

"Hmm. Can I take that as a compliment?"

" It IS a compliment."

"Thanks."

Belmondo. Beautiful world.
I thought of asking whether they were
down with Jarmusch's "Down by Law."
Roberto Benigni saying,
" It is a sad and a beautiful world,"
to a down-n-out Tom Waits.
I didn't.

It IS a sad and beautiful world.

I finished my 3rd beer.

Then I left,
my tail twixt my legs.

I looked up at the moon and howled.