Dearest Neighbor, I did, indeed, see you
back into your garbage cans.
As Caravaggio saw Narcissus, or as my
parents saw me minor in poetry.
-
-
when in a moment
of inattention your
most precious and richly
stained coffee mug falls shattered
to the floor it knows only
that it is broken
and cannot cry
but desperately
wishes it could -
I gave my dog a carrot.
She nosed it into the
ground, into the grass
and walked away, having
reached the end of some
dog-algorithm that tells
her a carrot is worth
saving, grass for safe-
keeping, and that I will
always wait to watch,
with two hands and a
face she’s allowed to lick. -
Not every thought needs
to be expressed. Certainlynot shouted, as though lovers
divided by a widening chasm offlame instead of a cooling dish of
patatas bravas that you found too spicy. -
I vowed to write this poem before
allowing myself a nap in the middleseat squozen between my wife and
an inattentive father seated justbehind his daughter who may as well
have been left at Disneyworld whereprincesses stand guard behind topiaries
and garbage cans and other princessesto emerge in case of indifference
to curtsy and wave and winkat this little girl peeking between
the seats to make damn sure sheis seen and known and loved which
is usually my job butI had a poem to write, and a nap to take.