To That Place Where Sleeping Dogs Lie

Most of the people

of the world

are where they are:

wanted, needed or not.

Some of the people

go where they want to,

wanted, needed or not.

Pushy, pushy, pushy.

The most difficult decisions

surround going where

we are both wanted and needed.

The two are not the same.

We can go where we are wanted

but not needed;

its an excess thing.

We can go where we are needed

but not wanted:

its a matter of they're pride

and butting-in

and we become imperialist dogs.

Poets are the least wanted,

the least needed,

except perhaps

by colleges and universities

who want to look posh.

“We have a poet.

He's even had his shots.

The department chair

grooms our poet once a week

and even picks up his poo.”

I serve no function

except to translate other poets,

teach word games to children,

play with my sand pile of words,

and try to make others think

about what I think about,

edit the little magazine

where I can chew up other poets

with my rejection canines.

Yes, I am a thought imperialist

doggedly barking up your brain stem,

scratching away the paint

on your outside doors.

I track in mud on your floors

you neatly maintain

to keep yourself from falling

into depths inside your hidden house.

I dig up your flowers

in those awful things

you call the poem you write.

I chew your invisible shoes

to bits

in the hopes your feet of clay

will be forced to walk

in more common soil.

I beg to be fed.

I want to be a fat, lazy poet.

I'll look at you with sad eyes

hoping you'll throw me a bone

I can gnaw on in the afternoon.

You can be common:

a human in your comfortable chair

reading a newspaper

or surfing the Internet,

me in my carpeted corner

chewing, grinding, gnawing.

I'll even try to sleep in your bed

to make you toss and turn,

my poem breathing heavily

through your sleepless mind.

In the morning I jump at the chance

to be taken for a walk.

If you're possessive about my words

you'll hold them tight to you

with a leash.

Careful, I can pull quite hard:

I'm a damn big poet

and I'm poorly trained...

perhaps, even impossible

to control.

If you repeat my words to others,

I'll run free in parks and fields

peeing on everything taller

than an adjective.

Throw the ball.

Let's play.

I'll woof a few times

to get your attention.

woof woof

Copyright © 2013 by Barry G. Wick All Rights Reserved