Corduroy, even in Summer 

I was deep down in bed this morning 

me and a cup of my Grandma’s favorite coffee back in the sixties  

(she lived next door to the factory, loved it when the wind shifted) 

reading Shakespeare and Pema Chödrön, Erica Jong, 

Emily Dickinson herself, that wild rebel recluse, 

Sinead O’Connor’s lyrics, the Charlie Watts obituary, 

when all of a sudden and a hot brown splash 

my dog Rosie jumped up in an arc, came down, landed on me

spilled coffee on my manly chest, and all points south. 

Rosie wagged deferentially, eyes full of apology 

I jazzed her exponentially, with my wild psychology. 

“Rosie,” I said, “like me, you are not a domesticated dog. 

So don’t worry about it. The status quo is overrated.”

 

She jumped off me and ran for the dog flap like a Triumph Spitfire!