Games of Fetch
Jan 12 2010


A poet needs a day job,
preferably involving an alarm clock
sweat
the “f” word,
dropped as freely as stevedores
— as punctuation, interrogative, exclamation mark.

Not so much the minimum wage
or exposure to daylight,
as release
from the black turtleneck uniform,
the blank page
staring accusingly,
the avant-garde eye wear
that pinches your nose
and makes your head ache.
And remembering
that everything’s material
— the brain-dead boss,
fellow workers, high on pot,
customers from hell.

As for me
I walk the dog,
dutifully stopping
when she sniffs,
carrying plastic bags for shit,
keeping her safe from traffic.
Not much of a job
but it clears the head remarkably.
Because her delight’s so pure,
her focus
so unselfconscious.
And how she inhabits the moment
so completely,
her short life seems almost immortal.

So now, I live less in my head
than my body.
And I have surrendered the clock
to endless walks
and games of fetch,
more than enough
to numb the mind
of any self-respecting poet.
But at the same time
I am forced to stop,
the close observation
all writers cherish.

A 24 hour day job,
with no pay cheque at the end of it.
And time for even fewer poems
that will not be read
by a world racing to who-knows-where,
and could not care less
anyway.