… rantings of a depressive procrastinator. Did I mention, I write? …

On Men

an, almost, found poem

 A book is a mirror:
if an ape looks into it
an apostle is hardly likely to look out.
– Georg Christoph Lichtenberg


Momma and Aunt Dubby sit talking at my kitchen table —
I am 19, a stick of furniture, visible and mute
they discuss my prospects for success with men.
Sadly wonder how I’ll ever make something of my self.
Sweetpeas curl up the strings in the garden
outside the kitchen window. Up to my elbows
in soapsuds and hot water,
I watch Uncle Junior’s dog, Duke, after urinating on the roots
of the sweetpea vines, lying down in the cool.
I face my nature at last as, well, not suited for wedded bliss.
It’s because I don’t care for dogs.

Duke will lie around all day, unaware that he sprawls
in a precious spot, and may uproot the vines;
he won’t come when he’s called or in the same room,
but can hear—from a half block away—a canopener grinding in the kitchen.
He dumps the garbage, rolls in it, reeks of it
then looks dumb and adorable at the same time.
When I want to be alone, Duke wants to play.
When I want to sleep, Duke wants to play.
He drinks from the toilet, then growls when I
slap him off my flowered chintz chair.
Duke will sit in the roadway or the middle of the living room,
perform grisley acts with his tongue, then
try to give me a kiss.
Dogs are tiny little boyfriends in fur coats.

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