Henpecked

Henpecked /Oil on black canvas / 11x14 unframed /  $185 includes shipping

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I'M SITTING IN THE KITCHEN this morning, and the back door is open. That means the dogs can run in and out at will - and they love it. They think they are big deals, since they don't have to get me to open the door for them. Masters of their destiny. 

There aren't many days in the year when I can do this - when the temperature is not too hot or too cold, and there aren't too many bugs. Right now, Doc is standing in the open doorway, looking out, and Lulu is sitting on the top step, and they are quiet and happy. 

Those spring and fall stretches when I can leave the door open are also the stretches whenthe time and the temperature are most likely to show up as the same numbers on my little digital thermometer/clock on the kitchen windowsill. So at 5:40, if it is 54.0 degrees, the numbers are the same. At 6:10, it might be 61.0 degrees.

There's only a small window for this silliness, and I always looked forward to it and laughed, and then found that Peter also always looked for it and laughed at it. It's still a special, silly thrill, and it still always makes me smile and think of him. 

***

For Today

Spring Reign

Thank you whoever tuned the radio

to rain, thank you who spilled

the strong-willed wine for not

being me so I'm not to blame. I'm glad

I'm not that broken tree although

it looks sublime. And glad I'm not

taking a test and running out of time.

What's a tetrahedron anyway? What's

the sublime, 3,483 divided by 9,

the tenth amendment, the ferryman's name

on the River Styx? We're all missing

more and more tricks, losing our grips, 

guilty of crimes we didn't commit.

The horse rears and races then moves no more,

the sports coupe grinds to a stop, beginning

a new life as rot, beaten to shit, Whitman

grass stain, consciousness swamp gas,

the bones and brain, protoplasm and liver,

ground down like stones in a river. Or does

the heart's cinder wash up as delta froth

out of which hops frog spawn, dog song,

the next rhyming grind, next kid literati?

Maybe the world's just a bubble, all

philosophy ants in a muddle,

an engine inside an elk's skull on a pole.

Maybe an angel's long overdue and we're

all in trouble. Meanwhile thanks whoever

for the dial turned to green downpour, thanks

for feathery conniptions at the seashore

and moth-minded, match-flash breath.

Thank you for whatever's left.

- Dean Young