The Hankering (v. 1)

The Hankering (v. 1)

He shaves with an electric razor
before brushing his teeth.
He forgets to floss because he's running
late and can't find his paisley blue socks.

He kicks up a pile of clothes with his toes,
and his dog plays along in leaps.
His ears excited, his paws scraping the carpet,
he hangs out his tongue in a smile,
then chews on his paw, listens to birds
out the window, and he's gone
with a slam of the door, and it's quiet.

The dog puts on a pair of khaki pants,
mists cologne below his leather collar,
and swipes the newspaper from the kitchen table.
Drinking coffee and reading, the dog thinks
about getting a job. Preferrably one
involving day walks. So he highlights and circles.
He decides on a blind woman with a cane
and a canary named Platypus Sue.

She is my new owner, he says to the window.
He folds the paper, rinses the coffee pot,
puts on a shirt and says goodbye to the houseplant
in the living room with its dried leaf tips,
and he kisses the orange cat that sleeps
under a desk lamp and claws at mosquitos
in the window, and he's gone
with a slam of the door, and it's quiet.