Often, as the day’s doleful hours grow too heavy
and I long to abandon my many cares,
I think of my dog in his bed, how he has no funerals
to dread, no faux pas to dwell on late into the night,
no incessant questions ringing in his ears. And
it’s then that I'll notice his muzzle on my lap, a ball
held hopefully in his mouth. He must remain there
a good while, for what else can he do but wait for me,
his only friend, to—at last!—play a game of fetch.
May the road to fulfillment be long and steep and smeared with fog, moss-lined, leaf-strewn, rockslide-prone, oft-closed for repair, haunted, the
On a perfectly normal Saturday, the kind where normal humans do normal human things, I log online to check my bank account for fraud...
Whatever touch I had is gone. Maybe I never had it. That would be better. One can't throw away a non-belonging. Can't chase after the dump truck for some treasure that isn't there.
