Christa Forster


Yesterday on the bus, a homeless girl
wearing a fucked-up muzzle turned on
me, growling like a boiling bitch.
A rabid mutt maintained his little boner
in the back row. Bordering on
forever, he barked the marvelous mastiff off
the metro. Full of hay and tranquilizers
and rhyming sins, I sniffed around seats
before disembarking for the store.
In the street, traffic lights hissed.
Dogs led by their masters lunged and sprung
at auto-dimmed shattered screens, home
buttons, personal hotspots, silent vibrations.