Archives :: Jennifer M. Kuhn

untrained dog

Appeared in the Fall 2005 issue.

You run colorblind and bloody-pawed through fields,
picking flowers,
flowers I'll hate, flowers I'll burn
or throw away.

You come home and knock over sacks of sugar in the kitchen,
you lick up what is spilt.

Dog, you need to learn to eat
what is put in your dish on the floor,
and to stop coming home drunk every night.

And you have been here for two years.
Will you ever learn the sound of your own name?

And don't you think it's time to get a job?
a real job?
and keep it?
to start paying your half of the rent?

Dog, I know you love me but
you gotta understand I could put you to sleep
so easily.

View bio information and additional poems published in Half Drunk Muse on the author's main archive page.