Jake Starr

I’m gonna be that dog.
The one that refused to herd black and grey cattle.
Parting the Central station sea with flyers
Beckoning a warming.
Threatening the Eagles,
At nest atop the ice caps. But Ice floats
And a pug can’t swim forever.
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So I’ll have to be a Roomba.
To lap up god knows what,
All the while humming a gentle tune.
Letting out a funny beep whenever they touch me and I don’t know how to react.
Hoping one day I’ll show up to work so bloated and congested with lint
That I combust into a flame.
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Maybe if I’ve been eating well, I’ll be hot enough to climb those carpeted stairs
And warm their glass ceiling to a shatter.
Comfortable enough in their lack of eye contact
To overcook the nursery.
Roast the farrow before it can squeal for better.
When I have finally burnt out,
The ashes of invoices will dance through the framework
Of something that seemed familiar.
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I just pray the domesticated hound finds the door before that.