I keep seven calendars, six clocks,
and live in a brick house on a street with no wolves.
There is wind sometimes,
stars,
and I like to read when it rains.
I have been here twenty years and buried five dogs.
I was married before,
considered suicide,
kicked booze,
had a garden.
Every morning, I rise early.
Things must be begun immediately, worked on steadily.
I like muffins and coffee.
I think of my father tearing out his feeding tube,
eager to die if he couldn't have an omelette or a cigar.
The butter and blackberry jam are superb.
I will write another poem this morning,
do dishes,
take time for my projects,
watch some tv.
There is a new spot on my neck. It's nothing.
My dog watches me watch myself in the mirror.
I wonder if anyone will want my books when I die?
I shake it off, go and put on boots.
"Come on," I tell him, "We have jobs to do."
We spend the day outdoors,
come in happy and tired.
I give him part of my snack as a movie plays.
Then, time for bed.
Brush teeth,
consider what got done and what didn't,
go around and double check that the doors are locked.
Who would take care of my dog if I died?
We are both just heart beats
in a bed in a house in a sprawling world.
I kiss his head, turn off the light.
"I love you," I tell him,
as I used to tell my spouse, my child, my other dogs.
"See you in the morning."
I close my eyes and sleep easy, as if it were a given.
________
for Dverse Poetics The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, hosted by Linda Lyberg.
image: Woman With An Airdale Terrier by Edvard Munch