Post
It
I think it started when I misplaced my planner
probably sandwiched between slices of library
books overdue, to grow more overdue,
until the small slap of pale yellow beckoned
me to press in urgent print: “Bring back, Idiot!”
As if overnight, the kitchen counter was soon decorated
with tiny throw rugs embroidered with “Dentist 4:00”
“Call brother” and “Dump – Saturday” while
the coffee machine stood at shameful attention
wearing a badge announcing its rank of “Buy filters.”
I was compelled to acquire more, a brick of fluorescent sheets to paste
“Must Mail!” reminders to the stack of stamped envelopes
holding the mortgage payment and other bills,
waiting on the bookcase by the front door,
an act almost as redundant as labeling the doorknob with “Turn and Pull.”
I feel like a child who can’t keep his thoughts to himself. I know the
dog
would like a walk, but I might forget as I drift to my bedside clock
to scratch a note about setting the alarm earlier than normal for a
meeting I have
with a person whose name is in the other room stuck to my car keys.
Still, “Walk me” glued to her collar is not a bad idea.
With a scribble and a peel I have removed
the short term memory from my brain,
sent a few folds on vacation until further notice.
Don’t ask me to make a mental note.
How long before I am waking up to a ceiling of paper tiles
reminding me to “Shower” and “Go to work”? Or “Breathe”?
Although I have thought about it, I have not yet written
“Tell wife you love her.” I would probably use
my best cursive on a pink sheet and thumb it on the inside
of my closet door. If I had to, I could remove it, then stick it back.
Lift it off. Put it back.
To Put Down a Dog
She won’t be suffering and it’s for the best
becomes the incantation you roll over
in your dry mouth, words to hold your knees
straight while you finger comb the mound of fur
and wait for the second shot to stop her obedient heart.
Decades and other dogs ago you can’t recall
endings so solitary and tragic.
There were stories of bone-shaped clouds
and floating fields where tips of tails wagged
angel wings and young boys ran back out to play.
Now you wonder what to tell your wife trembling in the car.
The vet was very gentle.
At home rubber balls and squeaking squirrels
lie quiet in knotted plastic bags headed for the dump,
and the circular fleece bed is folded, a last quarter moon
on a basement shelf, your modest effort
to hide mementos of the new silence.
And it’s a nice try,
but how do you ignore the sun pouring
through the skylight, showering the
warm quadrangles she inched along
in her carpet dreams, a four-legged
sundial keeping time for you and the Sunday paper.
Copyright © 2002 David Donovan
