A bad poem from last month

The sidewalk is yellow with pollen
sullenly glowing
under the lowering sky.
His allergies were bad this week.

On spotting an unused tampon in the street

while walking the dog on the first warm day of spring,

one that is the same brand that i use, but not the same size,

at least not a size that i have used for many years now,

i still think, is this mine, did i drop it, should i pick it up.

Poem

i am afraid to pick the flowers

that grow on the side of the footpath

in this strange country.

even when they have such a fragrance,

such a fragrance that you can smell them before you see them,

and sometimes you don't even see them,

still i am afraid to just pluck one,

to just break off the stem at the node,

with the longish nails of my thumb and index finger, like a pincer.

instead, i rub my thumb into the very heart of that little white flower,

so that i can enjoy the scent for a little longer,

at least until i reach home.

Strip now.

Flay now.  Do not cry out, or whimper.  Be still, be dull.  Let them forget about you.  Let them leave you.  No, no, it is you who must leave.  Forget your grace and forget your awkwardness.  Forget how, in waiting rooms, you cover the lower half of your face with your clumsy hand, so that no one will see your clumsy mouth.  Forget how this reminds you of your mother, and how much you hate it.  Forget your mother, and your father.  Forget the city in which you were born.

Toby

I had a long walk with Toby today, as long as the ones we used to have when i had first got him, and was conscientious about such things. Toby is a peculiar dog, that is, I find him peculiar. Which is not saying much, I have not known any dogs before him. I think he is peculiar because he is not interested in anything other than food, and walks, and maybe being pet. If you throw a stick, he will sit there looking at you with patient expectation. He sees no point in running after things that don't smell like food. And on our walks together, he is constantly sniffing for food. Today I had to extract from his mouth the rotting half of some furry animal that he had found in a bush. Earlier, I was sympathetic, I thought to myself, 'The poor thing, he had to scavenge for food when he was a stray, he can't help himself.' These days I just find it annoying, I joke, somewhat maliciously, that he should have been called a black-and-tan foodhound. Perhaps I am being unjust to him. He does care about one other thing after all, he is very attached to his humans, and I suppose I can call this a noble feeling.