Monk’s Mood

My life as a mad orthodox monk ended in obloquy, 
and disgrace. At the staff picnic, small yellow dogs
lounged in the cinematic drone of the vapor lamps,
vigilant, but outwardly calm. A reversible hairshirt

was a bridge too far. As per company protocol she
was followed. To the office. At the butcher’s shop. 
Even in the sparkling toilet at the club. She carried 
a small yellow dog in a seal skin purse that smelled

of porridge and woodsy green soap. I should have 
known better than to trust in the mail. Everywhere
I looked, handbags. Listen closely. She can almost
feel the air. Small yellow dogs stalk the boulevards

of the mind. I told them the calculations fell within
the scope of my remit, yet all they needed from me
was one small yellow dog. Run, I said to her, but it 
was over. Then the birds returned. Then the stars.

Jeffrey Little | Transcript from The Hague
Contents | Mudlark No. 77 (2024)