No one around
but the overgrown

median’s bull thistle
to steal his bottle,

to abandon him
pummeled and piled to this

clutch of oozy
oxeye daisies blushing

screwed delight at
his stumbling

roll into a slow
crawl to grow

bearded with
the vicious ants,

to lick what little hydration
he can, the busted dew,

to squirm as close to prayer
as he’s allowed,

to plead with the quackgrass
in his mouth to ferment

fast before that last,
sustaining trace

sweats out of him in seizure, and
Long Teal Fingernails,

out searching for her
goldendoodle, calls for those

always-the-same
emergency responders,

Muscles, Cattle Prod, and Net.