A Poem We Weren’t Sure What To Name

“Kicks just keep getting harder to find,”

I can hear Mark Lindsay say

from the radio on the counter in the kitchen

you leave on for your pets all day,

tuned to the station you play in your car

so you can stay connected

even when you’re away.

From my seat on the chair

you drove North

from your grandmother’s basement

after she passed away,

I can see the black nose of

a schnoodle bob up and down

as he stops to investigate

before giving up and sauntering off

to lie down under the coffee table

in the living room

to lazily watch flecks of dust

suspended like glitter in the sunlight

and the stretching shadows

of the afternoon;

before being roused by

the barks of his brother,

each bark punctuated by

his four hopping feet,

at the sound of the mailman outside

or a truck with an empty trailer

hitting potholes in the street

which elicits irritated grumbles

from a lazy tabby trying to sleep

curled in his sun-soaked bed

his two front paws covering his head

and one back leg dangling free.

It all probably sounds

so inconsequential

but right now my world is this room.

I write what I see,

so here in my words
is a picture of a Tuesday afternoon.