My dog lies like a slug
outside the screened door,
pondering. He’s fixing to eat breakfast.
He’s going to catch him a rabbit,
the big one out by the garden patch.
He stretches and looks at his watch,
thinks better of it, rolls over on his back,
the rabbit fading out of memory,
eventually sequestered in the closet,
a pinhead eternity.
All this excitement coming before noon,
buttoned away, not so much as a woof
of his own, ignominious,
slouching back to puppy reality,
still blocking the doorway.
Bob McAfee is a retired software consultant who lives with his wife near Boston. For several years he made an hour train commute to and from Boston and developed the habit of writing in that fixed time. He continues to try to write two hours every day. His style is eclectic, but his goal is producing poems with both fierceness and a reluctant sense of optimism.