I question the empty page
like a moldy slice of bread —
it might have been a decent meal
in someone else’s hands.
The clock records a passing hour.
Still no verse worth printing out.
A filthy kitchen floor
sticks to my shoes
like an uttered lie —
I flip through yesterday’s mail,
stacking bills in heavy bricks,
thinking I’m an ad for grief,
ought to get different life
that dwells upon a butterfly.
Our puppy slams the keyboard tray,
pulls at my socks with rollicking teeth.
Her tail wags east then west —
pointing out with clarity the aching light
I’m missing in this clouded room —
all the blinds pressed
firmly shut like coffin lids.
She rolls upon her fluffy back,
offers me her tender skin
and clammy paws fresh from
morning’s dewy lace —
she knows somehow that suns
aren’t jars of mustard seeds
to stash on racks and never use.
