Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Ill-tempered. Someone might say,
"She's getting older"
If there were anyone.
Go ahead, throw that god damned ball down the hall--
I won't even lift my head.
I know how this goes. If I fetch it, you'll just pitch it away again,
Or pretend to,
While I look around in confusion. You will laugh triumphantly
Because you're smarter than the dog.
I want to be Ambassador to France
And eat crepes all day,
But I want France brought here;
No way am I getting on some god damned plane,
They would make me travel crated, in the cargo hold.
When I sleep,
My hands and feet flip up and down, because I am remembering
That I have always been sweet by nature, eager to please,
And with any luck
I will not wake up,
But instead make you laugh and be declared cute.
Tranquilized and muzzled, caged high on the back of the animal control truck,
That's what this bitch is dreaming.