A man rings the doorbell
a bark is heard in the distance
we all try to envision
the dog behind the gates
the one to beware of
most of us guess incorrectly
a bark is not always specific to a breed
and neither is a dog specific
to the doorbell you just rang
were this to be an enlightening
conversation, I would tell you
that our particular inclinations
don’t matter much
in the world of solar panels
and gyroscopic cars
where men have dreamt most
of the world and the women
have waited for their chance
not all but most
but we all wait for a chance
so no one’s really special
it could dawn upon us
the preposterous nature
of our venture
one random evening
while we are sipping IPAs
from wooden mugs
or it could escape our
narrow field of vision
like plenty of other things
in this world
but somehow, today
at the end of another Tuesday
I’m reminded of an old lover
who would tuck her head into
my pillow and sing a lullaby
to my face, as if I were her
God child. She would also
pleasure me with a certain
dedication that only comes when
you are paid to do something
but she wasn’t a hooker
I just didn’t have a clue what she
saw in me, but she called me baby
and I became her baby
without question, but with
copious amounts of confusion
I serenaded her invasion
into my head and gut
so anyway, the dog, the evening,
Tuesday and the old lover’s lullaby
they are all connected
you trace these dots
you find a silhouette at least
of man brimming with capital
and promise,
but never knowing
quite what to do with it
It’s a terrible story
with a terrible end
but that is your faux pas
you trusted an amateur poet
with a lateral incision
at a time when his hands were
shaking from having too much
to drink and almost nothing
to pivot on.
