Tomato Dreams

There’s a plane sat at a terminal. Inside this plane there is a wide, comfy seat. And gentle, sexy women asking me if I’m comfortable. Would I like anything to drink? Tomato juice. Please. Why always tomato juice.
This plane, it’s taking me to the desert. My dog is there, laying on his side, breathing slowly. If at all. I’m sorry Duke. I’m a douche. Dried food, once spongy meat in jelly, the odd pea or carrot, now welded to the side of his tin bowl. The smell of him licking my rough face. The sound of his claws upon the linoleum as he runs in circles, his bladder close to bursting.
I’m sorry Duke.
This plane, it’s due to take off any second. And I’m here.
In Reading.

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