Patches The Pickled Puppy

Patches The Pickled Puppy

He lives in a jar tucked under my bed
White with brown spots, floating in amber
Liquid… I think formaldehyde
And sometimes I get hungry
In the still of the night
And down a smidgen
I know it’s wrong
But tender
and soft
and
Oh
The taste!
On my breath
His memory
Lingering there still
When I burp I taste him
His fetal hair coats my tongue
Then reverse peristalsis comes
But it’s okay, I still have the jar
In which Patches the Pickled Puppy plays