Some days, I just wander
around the house talking to myself.
Rainy days, more than others.
If I say her name
now and again, the dog will listen.
Where’s my treat? she wonders
as I ramble further,
ramble from room to room, looking
for whatever I lost there.
If I remembered what it was
I might find it.
Shouldn’t I know it when I see it?
The roof is leaking again,
I tell myself and the dog.
Stephen Brooke ©2012
I had to avoid the temptation to make more of this poem, to add images that would really serve no purpose. Even though it hurts to leave out a nifty bit of wordplay (I could have gone on and on about the dog), one must have the discipline to edit oneself. I suppose it’s no secret that I dislike self-indulgent wordiness in any sort of writing.
This almost became a song rather than a word piece. Maybe I’ll yet cannibalize a few lines and write something with a tune.