The wind smooths back the leaves of a tree, like a mother taming her child's unruly hair. Parisian music mixes with the grind of an old dishwasher, the kind I grew up with, before we figured out how to encase the rough work of removing stubborn food particles inside the hush of fingerprint-resistant stainless steel. The dog carefully excises the plastic squeaker from the "indestructible" ballistic NASA-approved fabric of the new toy - a stingray disguised as a leopard. Dogs must think we're crazy with the shit we buy them, even as they wag their tails in thanks.
That last sentence was total poetry to me. I love the way there seems to be a radical change in tone right there. Made my day the first time I read it, and again today when I remembered I wanted to read it again!
ReplyDeletewho knew-you are a poet too
ReplyDeletethat is funny. I didn't know what to call this. I wouldn't have dared to think poetry though. I will hold that in my mind now as something that might be possible...
ReplyDeleteI really like your blog dear!
ReplyDeleteKeep going with the great work!