Butcher's street

Pulitzer walked up this street. A beard to his waist tucked in a pocket of his long coat. Vladimir waived his hand to him from a distance, when he was writing his revolutionary poetry. Now a dog, an empty bucket in his muzzle, walks the street with a purpose. Pulitzer walked up this street. Dazed street whispers Maiakovsky's verses. The dog disappeared inside of the slaughterhouse. Everybody around here knows this dog. After a while he reappeared. His master is now helping him to carry a full bucket. Pulitzer walked up this street, whole street sighs deeply. Trolley pole shouts Maiakovski's verses, when the streetcar turns right corner. Pulitzer and Maiakovski are now shaking their hands. Which of them has had the beard? I don't know. Did those two ever meet? I don't think so. Butcher's Street was in need of little drama. What about the dog? He is inside of his home now. What about the streetcar? It still sways thorough the street. What about the slaughter house? It is still there. And what about Pulitzer? I doubt he knew anything about Maiakovski's poetry. Nearby Butcher's Street Vltava river washes its banks, and I keep walking. Copyright (c) Marie Neumann Pottsville 12/10/2010 Copyright (c) Marie Neumann Pottsville, 12/20/2009