Mood: relaxed | Drinking: not so much
A new poem for you, started in June but not finished until last week…
After yelling at my dog,
I decide I will be a terrible mother.
The dog doesn’t want much.
Head pat. Butt scratch. Kibble
A child wants more,
takes all. I am afraid
of my overwhelming lack.
I have stored up just enough patience
for paw prints on couch cushions
for plastic bags of fresh poop
for long walks on the beach
followed by a car ride fragrant
with ocean-flavored dog.
But I know nothing of strollers and Similac
of the wonders of flushable diapers
and the dangers of Bisphenol-A.
I am attached to my own independence,
to the ability to spontaneously dash out for dinner
or read away an entire afternoon.
What’s more, canines don’t ask complicated questions
about why God sits back and lets bad things happen.
They don’t fall into a tantrum frenzy upon discovering
that all the blue popsicles have already been eaten.
See? Already the dog has forgiven me,
pushed her wrinkled fawn head
into my chest, snuffled my cheek
with foul-breathed devotion.
Surely, at the very least,
a child would make me pay
for the therapy.
-Lo, who will take some credit for being a pretty good auntie.