MARCO

By Jameson Gillihan

Marco was my neighbor’s dog. They never bothered to train him which I never thought was fair, not to him or them or me and what about me, what I deserve, I’m up the street, your neighbor. The dog’s name was Marco and he was black with cute tan eyebrows over which he had immaculate control, raising one, the other, pleading begging crying or manifest-excitement his eyebrows flying off his face he’d run. We took him for walks when the neighbors were out of town and listened to him howl on the weekends when they threw their parties. Marco had sharp teeth and a wet, pink tongue. His nails left shallow ruts in the living room floor. He was always so full of energy. Who has that much energy?

Dogs. Dogs have that much energy. What do you really want to know the answer to?

I guess I want to know why he couldn’t calm down. What’s so hard about sitting still for an extended period of time, really. Why my neighbors thought to get a dog in the first place if they were never going to bother trying to train him—

Sorry. Really though, what was that decision process like. Or what is it like to share a house with an animal you never want to spend any time with, or what it’s like to spend all your time an animal thumbless covered in fur. How to be a dog and never trained. Could you not afford me this small attention? I just want to be good for you but I never learned how. And I have so
                                                                                                                                                                           much
                                                                                                                                                                                              energy
                                                                                                                                                                                                                   racing
                                                                                                                                                                                                       through me
                                                                                                                                                                                                          rib-rattled
                                                                                                                                                                   hyperactive
                                                                                                                                                 mongrel
                                                                   breaking chains I
                                                                   needed to know what would happen if I pushed your
                                                                   limits or
                                                                   if you even had any
                               I was wrong/
wrong/ wrong/ wrong I was
                              paper-whacked righteousness I was
                                              red-skinned blushing I was
                                                                                                   blushing
                                                           I knew I had done something wrong
                                                                          I did something bad
                                                                                                   To you

What did I do

*

I develop a habit
                of licking myself pink
                                of tongue-scraped bald spots under my ribs
                I lick myself nauseous
I puke black hair
                You clean for me while I watch
                                guilt-touched but pleased with the attention
                                                I taste the creases between my arms and belly
                                                                the arch of my thighs
                                                                                my tail
                                                                                                my shit
I develop a habit of whining
a tool I will keep with me forever a smoke signal catharsis a thing to do bored

I’m always bored

Marco was always bored
but the poor thing never could control himself and it was easy to grow resentful,
my second-story
glower snipe-shooting from afar
telepath misanthropy
my neighbors were immune to,
poor Marco, I think he absorbed it all for them.
He was gone eventually not sure how, or
when our last walk was or if he’d jumped fence or
tugged himself loose mid-walk one day or if
his owners finally got tired of guarding the gate and decided to just let him go for it.
He was gone but they were still there. I watched them dismantle the dog house from the second-story window.