Poetry and dogs, and knowing that there is a Scottish Poetry Library (above), a combination you can't NOT love. In celebration of National Poetry Month, because we can never have enough good poetry.
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
|Image by chrisdonia, from Flickr, used under a Creative Commons License.|