Donkey tips his nose up to the soft-lipped
whispers that rise from the
worship of his bucksome behind;
the faint smell of whisky is nothing new.
His back legs have just increased by two.
Donkey has come precisely for this,
stayed out late, strayed from the gang
to slink through the centre of town, stopping
for a scratch on every dim-lit corner,
eyeing up the animal-friendly crowd.
Sirens diminish to elsewhere,
Drum & Bass bangs across the rooftops
but nothing disturbs the tenderness of man
and his by-the-hour beast. Peaceful congress
such as this is rare, Donkey concedes, though in truth
his friend hasn’t even touched the sides.
You might recoil at the flimsiness of Donkey’s backbone
but Donkey never gets praise like this back home:
Precious darling / amore mio / sweet-skinned creature and not / untight in the right light / I adore you Tesoro / I adore my donkey love / you beast / you poor worn beast / my donkey love / my precious donkey life
The night traffic doesn’t slow, there’s no rubbernecking
Donkey and his pal, the couple smoking only cross because
there isn’t room to pass, neither looks back
to see the street beacons flash in time
to Donkey’s six-legged mechanical sway.
Well, apart from a long lunch outside the greengrocers,
Donkey’s done bugger all else all day.