My dog is on the cusp of being intelligible.
He mouths Pavlov,
shitting instead of holding his head high.
The Bible can be the best pigsty,
or the Quran, or the Bhagavad Gita,
but, maybe, you keep religion in the cabinet.
Not on your counter.
My wife does downward dog,
letting her body heave, free
to do the work that isn’t work.
So, maybe, I can be the boss of my biggest dreams.
Living is not ideal, nor imaginary,
but I find the egg to be more mystery than matter.
It can turn, tip, touch,
or break into pure dissolution.
Yolks carry more force than shit.
Not the dog’s, but my own,
for eggs fuel me for the next day,
but yolks fuel righteous anger.
