Sleep, Mostly
May 28 2021
She barks at the mailman.
Sniffs the trash
circling back to sniff again.
Ignores the cat,
who flashes his claws
whenever she comes close.
Laps at the water bowl,
and doesn't think about her bladder
or when or where she'll pee
because dogs do not think
more than a minute ahead.
Keeps busy,
sniffing
scratching
licking her own behind.
But sleeps, mostly.
And wanders,
from the chair to her bed to yours,
the forbidden couch
that mat in front of the door.
Doggie dreams, legs thrashing
about running and rabbits and food.
Her tail wags,
thumping the floor
when her imagination turns
to your coming momentous return.
The hugs and pats
and scratches behind the ears.
The tempting scents
embedded in your clothes,
the kibble filling her bowl.
The clink of the leash
the walk, the breeze
the stops to sniff and pee.
What does she do
when you're away all day?
Sleeps, mostly,
a pack animal
who's gotten used to being alone.
A friend of mine asked me for some feedback on a poem she wrote. And with each version, I found myself getting hung up on a small digression she included about a dog. She is making tea in a basement apartment in a faraway city, and it reminds her of her absent family. The dog stirs overhead, and the loneliness she projects on it emphasizes her own. I'm not a great editor, so instead of suggestions to improve her voice, I kept rewriting what she wrote. Here's an example: “There's a scratching overhead. / I must have awakened / the landlady's dog / who is left alone all day / and mostly sleeps and waits.”
Later in the day, I noticed an article in The Atlantic about how all the pandemic dogs, who have gotten used to their humans being home all day every day, and sometimes known nothing different, will fare once people return to work.
All this came together to inspire this little trifle of a poem.
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