I’d rather talk on the phone than text,
for reasons you might fully expect.
I’m human with feelings and eyes,
my language, expressive, such that I’s
certain to use the wrong word,
thus rendering our conversation absurd.
On Yellow Labradors:
My rugs went to the doctor for cleaning,
Leaving the hardwood exposed to the preening
of licking and scratching, of flicking and latching
onto it hundreds of yellow hairs, dropping and plopping,
Until I in a fit of vacuuming rage, I scream out “Stop”
shedding you miserable hairy, to which the hairs
said, “Let go, Miss Cheri.”
On Barn Owls:
Alone in my house late at night, I
hear the sound of the barn owls in flight.
A grating, a satiating, a Natural restating
of the obvious–a waiting
for meaning in a world
as the talons
that pierce the rat’s head
in the night.