Andrew Hudgins

Rosie

Feet and butthole. I love
his feet and butthole. Well,
his butthole most of all.
And his dangler when he front-
humps Mistress. (I know, it
looks crazy to me too.)
Then his dangler smells
magnificent. Pungent
and almost gamey, but
not as great as his butthole.
Nothing’s great as buttholes.
But still it’s pretty fine,
that dangler, and you think
he’d be proud of it, happy
to have it sniffed thoroughly,
but he yelps and swats at me.
Of course, I love that dangler
and want to roll on it
—who wouldn’t?—but it’s not as great
as his butthole, which is full,
full of dark wonders, fragrant,
almost as good as a dog’s
butthole, almost as great

as the place near the river
where I somersaulted on
a soft, rank fish last August
—perfume!—and got smacked
and washed, and where I still
check every day because
it might return. It could.
And I rubbed my snout on it
and somersaulted on it
like I’d like to somersault
on his butthole, but he’s embarrassed.
I don’t know why. Nothing’s
as great as a good butthole
and all buttholes are good. Great!

—Rosie