Quixotically

As Festive sat coherent

at the bloodstained booth,

her waitress mopping up

Johnny Depp's unfortunate extra,

Festive created a scenario

in which a nosey black dog

asked multiple questions about

her love life, while licking

dried salt from her post

workout calves.

Do you like tattoos? Are

sideburns a turn-on? From

whence do you come?

Woof? And others

mixed into broken metaphors,

obtusing her head into a pretzel.

Her ideal counterpart

contained no dog parts, but for a

dense tangle of poodle chest fur,

and was unachievable, though

on her treadmill of despair Festive

pursued her sweaty, darkly matted

obsession doggedly,
horsed dually on hie sneakers.

The dog daydreamed

at her feet

and lapped a puddle of

psuedo Depp,

thought himself out of existence;

Today she'd trade windmills for condiments.

Festive leaned on hands

and gleaned a smile

from a columnar flask of pureed tomato/stuff.