Faux pas

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.