New Meds, Ten-Week Follow-up
The dog’s gloriously firm shit in the street!
How full of health he must be—how eagerly
he eats while the coffee brews.
The smell of the coffee itself, singed sugar and wood!
Grandfather-hand smell, with gasoline.
Mother-after-dinner smell, with lavender.
To think I once cared if the sources of my joy were biochemical or miraculous!
To think how I wait for joy like a dog does for her owner to return home.
The labor of parsing the brain’s presentations
like splitting a strand of the beloved’s hair,
its perimeter this morning starbright and pulsing.
It thinks next year, I will fill the planters with neon vines!
It thinks next year, they will grow to the ground, and then to the sky!
It thinks next year!
