in red running
shorts calls his dog
pretty, he think himself
undone by this mutt
confused for a bitch,
bait snatched away,
not even a tug at the line.
But this best friend
senses his intent and
something else, secret,
buries his nose,
latching on to a leg,
apparent abandon
belying his focus
as he seeks friction
on a smooth surface,
shaved this morning
just to torment guys
like him Richard swears.
As he pumps madly,
ignoring half-hearted
tugs at his leash along
with her swatting hand
on his hairy head,
the girl colors
before this evocation
of Zeus transmogrified
desire not to be denied.
Richard knows he is
done so lets go, marvels
at the terrible beauty
of nature unleashed.
sometimes red; every now
and again the sacks hold
other novelties,
post-its from RepoPharm,
or cheap Inclepta shirts,
or off white Merck mugs.
But she generally goes
for bags, sometimes
snagging sacks full,
each portable container
concealing another
empty one inside.
Designed only to carry
one weekend's worth
of promotional materials,
they have thin skins
and don't last long.
Last Tuesday I packed
a brand new one full
of books to cart to class,
hiding my Milton and Donne
under a Johnson and Johnson
label, and the cheap
straps snapped,
less bright but no more
enduring than ribbons
on presents
Christmas morning,
spilling leaves
across my path.
The Scotch brand bag
I hoped might last,
but it couldn't even handle
Ginsberg,
who split the seams
just this Thursday.
Matilda offered the bags
once to make up for her
long absences,
nights alone clutching
cats and pillows
in the dark of night.
Now she complains
I abuse the bags,
can't be trusted
to treat them right,
forgetting they are
merely premiums,
not designed
for long, heavy hauls,
for real life.
Her view is stacked:
she has cases
fit for a professional--
Travel Solutions
by Samsonite,
expensive stuff,
well worn but durable,
almost bulletproof--
and she takes them
everywhere,
every other week
away, off to
learn the latest
lifesaving
innovations.