The Implication of Pet Names

1. HEEL

i see a future where i walk

through the door, and you are there

to take my shoes off and carry me

to the couch, where we exchange soft words

about our days. you run your hand along

my calf, your tone and your touch telling me

all i need to know.

i nuzzle into your chest,

you scratch my head,

and we breathe each other in after

so long apart.

2. SIT

i see a future where we eat

at the dinner table, noticing small silences

that grows louder the longer it takes us to

find something to say.

we are through with the table scraps—

i love yous,

i want yous—

and it’s only seemed to make us

more aware of starvation.

we throw out what treats we can

over scraping utensils.

3. SPEAK

i see a future where you yell

at me, and i return your fury, because

after all this time, i

am no less rabid.

we rage against each other until

torn skin and broken promises

litter the carpet.

later, we attempt

to lick each other’s wounds,

but the saliva

only makes them sting more.

4. PLAY DEAD

i see a future where you tell

me that no one else will cherish me

more, and i believe you,

so we conceal what we know to be true

behind wagging tails and puppy eyes

because we so desperately want to be loved,

both of us.

we yield to each other

like loyal dogs do,

suffering under a broken mastery—

this love.

The; Wild Horses

The

With respect to the works and legacy of Stephen Hillenburg

I look to the television screen and see a mirror,

though I do not know it to be such yet.

A pencil glides across paper

cheered on by its holder, plucky as ever

pouring his heart and soul onto the page

He gazes upon his handicraft

baroque and magnificent, it reads as thus:

“The”.

It’s the first part of what should be a greater whole

yet all through the night, that’s all there is.

Just “The”.

An opus, stillborn.

The mind wanders far from its tracks,

only re-railed at the last second

out of sheer, impending necessity.

So long ago, this was just a farce to me

distant from reality

but time and time again, it plays out

with me in the lead.

Me, writing a simple “The” and mustering nothing more

for hours

for days

chasing a million other things

as though there’s no rush, no deadline

hanging over me like Damocles’ sword.

That isn’t to say that I pretend it isn’t there;

it’s prescient, and it drowns me

in an ocean of dread, all-consuming.

Yet, I sit there

at my desk

pencil in hand

like a simple sponge

staring at the page,

decorated by the scarcest of marks,

my excuse for a night’s handiwork:

“The”

Wild Horses

I’m always chasing

the tales of wild horses,

calling for me to venture out,

so breakneck as they run away from me,

giving little hope I can ever keep pace

(not that I've ever been terribly athletic).

I reach for the reins, and sometimes,

I hold on, saddling the storied stallion I prize

but it bucks and it twists and I’m thrown off,

left with mere threads in hand

so it’s back to the drawing board,

to the fields to chase

another wild horse.

All the same,

I dream of the day

when I catch the right horse for me,

strong enough to carry the weight of a world.

Oh, to feel the wind in my hair as the action rises!

To ride for hours until the sunset brings our denouement!

To let the action fall as we retire

to our stable at night.

Until then, I'll keep on

chasing horses.

The Little Things

A homeless man walks along the median.

I sit in my car and watch him,

praying he does not approach me.

25 dollars and 48 cents sit in my checking account.

I have nothing to give.

I have only pity - for others and myself - but nobody wants that.

Nobody welcomes the burden I carry.

The man holds a sign.

He’s a veteran. Anything helps. God bless.

I watch his eyes skip from car to car, returning the cold shoulders he’s receiving.

His eyes meet mine, and I don't know why,

but I smile.

And he smiles back,

with two gaps in his teeth.

Two gaps like me.

And I feel a wave of something wash over me.

I want to give that man all 25 dollars and 48 cent from my checking account

because he smiled at me,

and it's been so long since the last time that happened.

He starts to walk towards me,

as I’m digging through my bag for cash, or change,

or anything.

but the stoplight ahead of me turns green,

and I have to go.

I wave to him,

and he raises a brown hand in return.

I cry until I get home,

because he was the nicest man I've ever met.