Walking the Dog

I step on the torn dreams,

the scratched discards

that litter Hullenedge.

Dog sniffs every one,

looking for a winner

- or just winning -

since Dog’s wins

are heaven-scent.

I hopscotch the bottles:

broken, smashed and

smithereened, they

tell a story of a night

out-out, outside;

from knock-off pilsner

through alcopop-buzz

to half-bottles of Smirnoff.

Dog avoids the glass,

seemingly following

her all-smelling nose.

Collecting all the clues:

every dog is K-9

on the trail of everything.

I wonder where we’d reach,

if I did not turn for home?