There was egg salad in the fridge,
half a container of that store bought,
neon-green guacamole that nobody else
likes but me,
tortilla chips too.
So, we sat together and ate
this hodgepodge lunch,
the dog and I.
She never once complained
that there were no crackers
or a few pieces of soft, white
or even dark, crusty
pumpernickel bread.
We thought about whatever
it was that we thought about
while we chewed thoughtfully.
I looked up the word: tincture
in the dictionary that I keep in my
office,
right off the kitchen.
A friend of mine had used the word
in correspondence, and I was rather
embarrassed that I’d not known what
it meant.
But,
I found that embarrassment wanes
when one is scraping the last few globs
of guacamole out of the container with
one’s finger and is saddened because
the accompanying tortilla chips have
been reduced to crumbs.
The dog wasn’t embarrassed of me.
She was busy cleaning the remnants
of egg salad from the inside of the
old butter dished I’d packed it away
in.
I’d already packed what had been enough
for a decent sandwich away in my guts
using tortilla-chip spoons,
doing my best not to ***** more
silverware than I had to.
The hour was almost up;
I had to be back at the office
in about 15 minutes.
We,
the dog and I,
took this small measure of time
as an opportunity to listen to a
couple of songs…
one by Iron Maiden.
the other by John Coltrane.
While the discs spun,
the dog wiped any excess
egg salad or tortilla chip crumbs
from her muzzle
onto
the living room carpet,
by sliding around
on her face.
It was funny to watch.
I’ll have to be sure and not
tell Angela about it.
Soon enough,
it’s once more around the yard
dear doggie,
a Marlboro for me,
another few hours at the office,
little friend,
and I’ll sail back home
to thee.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 5:32 PM UTC
There was egg salad in the fridge,
half a container of that store bought,
neon-green guacamole that nobody else
likes but me,
tortilla chips too.
So, we sat together and ate
this hodgepodge lunch,
the dog and I.
She never once complained
that there were no crackers
or a few pieces of soft, white
or even dark, crusty
pumpernickel bread.
We thought about whatever
it was that we thought about
while we chewed thoughtfully.
I looked up the word: tincture
in the dictionary that I keep in my
office,
right off the kitchen.
A friend of mine had used the word
in correspondence, and I was rather
embarrassed that I’d not known what
it meant.
But,
I found that embarrassment wanes
when one is scraping the last few globs
of guacamole out of the container with
one’s finger and is saddened because
the accompanying tortilla chips have
been reduced to crumbs.
The dog wasn’t embarrassed of me.
She was busy cleaning the remnants
of egg salad from the inside of the
old butter dished I’d packed it away
in.
I’d already packed what had been enough
for a decent sandwich away in my guts
using tortilla-chip spoons,
doing my best not to ***** more
silverware than I had to.
The hour was almost up;
I had to be back at the office
in about 15 minutes.
We,
the dog and I,
took this small measure of time
as an opportunity to listen to a
couple of songs…
one by Iron Maiden.
the other by John Coltrane.
While the discs spun,
the dog wiped any excess
egg salad or tortilla chip crumbs
from her muzzle
onto
the living room carpet,
by sliding around
on her face.
It was funny to watch.
I’ll have to be sure and not
tell Angela about it.
Soon enough,
it’s once more around the yard
dear doggie,
a Marlboro for me,
another few hours at the office,
little friend,
and I’ll sail back home
to thee.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019
* yes, I wrote a poem for my dog.
Request permission to use this poem