No Doe

From Charlies arms hung
too soft hands that yearned
for harder ways of work-
occupied as they'd so long been
with the minute manipulations,
the quite tiny concentrations
that comprised a humanistic
kind of care which was his bloody job.

His hairy paws had suffered several
sport-related mashings, dislocations,
drunken bedroom trashings and,
for the wear, were not much worse-
nimble still enough to worry fretfully
over quirky samba-jazz chords
and scribble illegible, little read verse;
though cursed too were they
with remembrances
of wondrous, womanly geographies,
that so slow, roaming over joy of
loverly exploration now and anon.

"Those times," the sigh-stained
corny calendar remarked,
"Be long, long gone-
Despite burnt incense,
prayers and invocations."

This left him reeling;
starved and stark
his hunger felt he
on him like a rut-musk;
and, thus perfumed,
caused the roll of shoulders,
the cower, shuffle and slink,
infected his think-speak,
seemed to salt the very
brook at which he stooped to drink.