I put away dulled pencils,
and the grey
scribbling
that screamed back from
a near-empty
page.
Heeding the howling not,
I stepped back
for a moment
of what I claim is
air.
Habit drew me,
distracted, to the
kitchen,
to the stove
and to brief wisps
of a sick sweet smoke
that might provoke in others,
urgent need for caution.
Not me.
Thus, I grow fat
from simple constipation.
As I laboured at
the pots and pans,
smoke gathered to
a cloud,
collected until the neighbours
noticed.
Some folks name the billows
‘that big, black dog’
and I understand.
A woman I know
(who has handsome
children and a good-looking husband)
carries both fear of
and familiarity with
the dark beast
in her heart, too.
She speaks freely of
the black dog,
noting how often and when
this shadow creature
sneaks in.
Myself?
I never see anything
until there are real flames.
When folks nearby
began to offer grace,
this time,
I moved to a safer place,
shut down the cooking
and decided to
just
wait.
I know it is true,
sometimes,
for a package I might seek,
like the mail,
to be a
little bit
late.
Robert On The Air 