Despair sits on the pink leather
in my nose and tickles
the back of my throat
in the pea-green leather sofa,
crawls like a snail,
sideways, lurching forward like a turtle
in a bath of surreal Blue Jay feathers.
And Buddy-The-Dog announced,
“My leg hurts.
I said, “Of course it does;
you’re speaking English,”
and Harry-The-Dog moaned
over the difficulties of life –
A real moan like from a bear
who cares never to be disturbed.
I want to accept Despair’s
toggles with her fountain pen,
and I tell her, “You’re just a story;
you are not who I am,”
he wags his tail vigorously,
and Harry-The-Dog asks me to scrub
the persistent baby snot off my face.
Gracie-The-Dog is the queen
of serenity, and she sleeps through
all of the commotion
caused by Despair’s ruthless burglary
while Daisy-The-Dog and Pixie-The-Dog
wrestle in turmoil through the guest room,
hopelessly heedless of the terrible
Storm that surfs, close-by to the North.