I need to reach into my soul and scratch that itch—
Why else, write poetry?
Yesterday, a black dog was blocking my way
to the restroom
An ill omen?
I hope not.
He’s our obedient lab
forced to stare at kids
and accounting,
all day.
No wonder
he has a glazed look in his eyes
His mistress is miles away
getting lunch.
He just stands there, like a Zen Master
Hypnotized
not even wagging his tail.
“Will he get to go outside?” I ask our bookkeeper.
“No—he’s in training,” she tells me.
Today,
a coyote was trotting through the tall grass
on the golf course, at sunrise
like a thief
wary
and wonderful
in the morning light
So different,
from that dog
that doesn’t take delight
in anything.
The kids pet it
and it doesn’t even blink
It has too much love
Just a working dog
punching a time clock
waiting…
for what?
The end of its life, that never happened.
At least I can write poetry
sometimes, it’s bad
at other times, profane
but I want to be that coyote
and never that dull dog.
I want to put it out of its misery
but our school
is a gun-free zone
So, I’ll have to watch him die slowly
from one day
to the next.