meet cute

When I was 9 on the bus 
to ballet, a dog licked my 
back and it was okay. I 
didn't know whose dog 
or why she was there. I 
was only 9 then. Didn't 
mind. Didn't care. So I 
asked her did your dog 
just lick my back? She 
lit up. Can you dance?

I said yes
that's a fact, 
but the story 
is fake. I just 
made it up. 

If you like, 
I'm a drake in a lake! 
Some duck! 

Her face fell. So I 
don't have a dog? 

And you're not 
really 9? And 
this isn't a bus? 
And I'm not a 
girl?

Woof woof 

yup yup 

but you know, 
I can dance. 

Well, that's 
something, then! 

She glared, and she grinned
like my new best friend. 

Always in with a chance, 
you smooth raconteur! When
your author omniscient act's
pretty pure. Pity poor made-up
dog, pity poor made-up bus, let's
just sit pretty pure here
and pity poor us!

She beamed through tears, 
and said no let's not. If I can't 
have a dog, you can go blow 
snot

OK wait. I said
hey, what kind of dog?
She smirked. Hissed: 

bitch 

Yeah. That's
what I thought.
That's
all
she wrote, sold
and paid for, bought.

And she
got her dog.
With a long leash.

Taut. 

Now we go on long 
walks, short piers, 
woods, beach, and
I'm always gone
where she's easy in
reach.

That dog of hers, 
though. Always 
licking my back!

And it's almost okay.
You might say 
quack
quack