◉ 023 | Bag Your Shit

Early July—

midwinter.

Dark.

Cold.

I take Bruno out.

My turn.

He pees—

five times.

Marks every tree.

I want to go home—

that wet Melbourne cold—

but he won’t shit.

Then—thank God—

one, two, three.

I pick the first—

warm through the bag.

The second—

warm.

Can’t find the third.

I look—nothing.

Off to the side—

a tidy heap.

I pick it up—

cold.

Oh shit—

this isn’t ours.

It’s in my hand now.

Into the bag.

We all have shit

to deal with.

At least bag yours.

You reckon?