He’s in the bin again.
I can hear him rummaging
in the rubbish, even though
Brodheadsville has more bones
in the graveyard than on a plate.
And despite him wearing
the swivel-lid like a collar
in the kitchen, when I holler
‘Bubba, you made that mess’
there’s a sense of ‘hey I’m just sharing.’
Then he heads off to drink
out of the john, and it’s not as if
there isn’t fresh water in his dish,
these skills were learnt long before
he came creeping through our door.
It had snowed hard that day.
And now he won’t go out to play.
Bubba’s just plain scared you see
that he’ll be punished again
for outgrowing his puppy feet
Which explains the boulders and lakes
by a St Bernard Dali
when I drive the kids to market
or settle for much needed sleep.
Pain is word we both know.
it seems but, there’s no pill
other than ones invisible
inside a heart-shaped vial
to stem his anxiety.
But no matter just how much
that ‘ ruddy darn dog’ plagues me
out comes his wash-cloth tongue
to absorb salt when all is wrong
thus filling a tub marked empty.
For Christie Derco, Brodheadsville. P.A. Who welcomes all into her home-providing you bring her gallons of coffee.
All images remain the intellectual property of Christie Derco. P.A.