How often can a person (I, this I)
write about the unadulterated joy of waking
in my own bed in this house (my own)
with these two curly dogs
one slight one sturdy
pressed upon this I
right there (here) in the bed
one head in my lap
one chin on my feet
the luxuriousness of which
relentlessly continues toÂ
bamboozle and cannot even
remotely be elucidated by me?
How often?
Perhaps as often as this I continue(s)
to go away and return home again
safe and sound and gladder than glad
just to return home to this house
(& this bed)
(& these two dogs)
(& the son who keeps them happy & safe)
(& sound).
