Another Dog Poem

This one's for a friend of mine whose 14-year-old dog moved on today. I'm afraid I will know that feeling (again) all too soon.

Thieves

We invite them into our homes

and they immediately begin stealing things:

first a little bit of our dignity disappears

as we remove their waste from our floors and carpets,

then our sanity slips away as we make vain attempts

to teach them the rules of living in a house.

They sneak around in plain sight, looking for ways

 to entertain themselves that involve making off

with our shoes, slippers, socks, or chunks of our furniture.

Just about the time we are exasperated and ready to give up on them,

they walk right up to us in broad daylight, tails wagging

as we come through the door, and steal our heart.

“Only for a few years,” they bark as they run,

tossing it in the air like a tennis ball.

“Then we’ll make room for another.”

Only by then we don’t want them to.

waiting

Here's day five's submission of NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month):

waiting

on the floor

nearby, always nearby

for a word

a gesture

some action.

in the kitchen

alert -

for a crumb

a morsel -

gravity to work

facing out

sniffing the air

through the screen

tasting

drifting scents

by the front door

hopeful

!!!

i stand,

you look up,

we lock gazes

finally in unison,

Now!

in the car

ears flapping

wind in your face

window and

wags

Vacuuming

Here's day four's submission of NaPoWriMo (a poem a day for the month of April in honor of National Poetry Month):

Vacuuming

Since our granddaughter might visit today

I am vacuuming.

I watch the detritus of our passing

disappear off wood floors and area rugs:

small clumps and freshly-cut pieces of grass

the dogs hauled in on damp fur, stuck to backs

rolled like washing machines in the back yard;

brown bits of cereal, dry noodles and flakes of bread,

half a snap-pea, and under the stool a large tuft of

golden retriever hair, part of it stuck to the bottom of the leg.

Between the couch cushions, (look before shoving the nozzle in)

popcorn kernels, seeds, and 38 cents in coins. The quarter is sticky.

Under the couch, where she will undoubtedly play

is a catnip mouse, two chewed tennis balls and a plastic magnet:

the letter E.

By the box in the corner, dozens of shredded pieces of cardboard.

In the hall, (why always in the hall?) black fur from the cat.

Twigs, a long piece of straw; in the corner of the bathroom

a Q-Tip. More hair. Mine and yours. Not from our heads.

Dust. Next to the sink, an earring: pick it up and put it on the dresser.

Under the bed, a sock.

Evidence. We were here. If we suddenly left or disappeared,

this is what we’d leave behind. This is what Ella would find.

Unless, of course, we’d already gotten the house ready for her.