The Chocolate Lab lies asleep
at his mistress’ feet.
He’s a hundred pound love hound
happy to have been found
taken in, scrubbed and shampooed,
he seemingly thinks only of food.
The vet said to put him on a diet
of only two dry cups, so we tried it,
and when our tub of love is sleeping
we think he dreams only of eating.
During slumber he smacks his lips;
conjuring images of kibbles and bits?
Because when he awakes
to his food bowl he quickly makes
strides like a racing greyhound
chasing the rabbit into the ground.
He slides the last few feet
finding only an empty bowl to greet,
so he decides it’s time to go back to sleep
perchance to dream of luscious meat.

I could be a pescetarian
but not a predestinarian;
I once was a Presbyterian;
I like being a contrarian;
because it all seems sorta
fishy to me.

The scholarly priest wrote, “Let’s trust that
the beauty of our lives becomes visible
where mourning and dancing touch each other.”
It sounds so poetic, ideal, a theory.
Young seminary students listen
intently with eyes almost teary.
But sometimes for those who have experienced
the cruelty of loss and love robbed
the only dance they know is the dance macabre.
So young clergy don’t go forth with any glib plan;
just sit with the brokenhearted and hold their hand.
Be quiet, be quiet, don’t say a word,
but trust that the beckoning of Jesus
will eventually be felt and heard,
and maybe, just maybe the mourner will see
where lovers touch and mourning
becomes the dance of eternity.

The Franciscan wrote, “He saw the Kingdom
of Heaven even ‘in the midst’ of the Pharisees.”
The mysticism of Jesus gave him the freedom
to traverse heaven, hell, all mountains and seas
and see what needs to be seen —
the unity of humanity with divinity
in flesh and blood, spiritual, the unseen
and seen, the earth and infinity,
the temporal and the eternal
and also, what most of us see as simply infernal.

He prided himself in his fecundity
and ended his sentences, “…I rise
to all occasions, QED.”

But life demonstrates reality
and his wife was thumbs down
on her husband’s masculinity.

So she went to the local pharmacy
and purchased a pill or two
to help him keep reality on the QT,

and whispered in his ear,
“Come hither, my dear,
this is the way from QT to true QED.”

Three, big boob, tiny, boy butt, blond
Barbie Dolls of the Valley of the Sun
sauntered into the new, hip microbrewery
completely aware of the stares but feigning
oblivion to the turning heads. Towheads in
tow and a short, frumpy, Latina nanny bring-
ing up the rear, they made their way to the
outdoor tables to join other Valley Dolls.
They hugged each other with teepee hugs
and sat while the nanny chased the kids
around the place and when they were all
seated the nanny stood at attention while
the dolls looked at the menu. Friday after-
noon, their husbands left work early for the
Paradise Valley, Scottsdale golf clubs. Later,
on their way home to their gated communities,
the guys might stop off for a little, nine-
teenth hole, afternoon delight, while
the nanny finally got a chance to sit down
and put her feet up for a little while in
her casa in a south Phoenix barrio before
having to prepare the menudo for her hus-
band and the two kids coming home, one from
a local community college and the other
from ASU.

He would stay
the course
especially without a mother.
He would stay
until they
went to another
place.
He stayed
and eventually
they went.
And then he would
visit them in their new place
and with the new
ones of theirs
in their space.
It was strange.
He had been father and they
son and daughter
and he kept
thinking that way,
locked in an old paradigm.
“Brother, could you
spare a dime,
for me to figure out
a new paradigm?”
They broke out
and grew up and
became adults and
looked another way.
Would they, could they
become friends and fraternal lovers
or linger in the netherworld
of not knowing who
they were with each other?
Did he even want to
go another way
or just nurse old wounds
and stay
stuck?
“Brother, Here’s your dime.
I can’t find a new paradigm.”
But what choice did he have?
Could his love
transform from
parental to filial?
Had there been
too much water under the
bridge proverbial
or over the dam? Damn.
Had there been too much
stuff in the old place
cluttering new space?
Only time would tell,
and a lot more than
a little grace.

At the grill by the pool, he was asked,
“Do roadrunners fly?”

He thought to himself, my, oh, my,
why do they want to know if those birds fly?

But right off the top of his head,
he said he’d give it the old college try.

So he said they run so fast they take off
like a low flying plane but only in spurts so short.

He googled it and he was right. Running at
seventeen mph, they aren’t the flying bird sort.

So he googled about what they eat when they
are running fast and flying low.

He learned they swallow rattlesnakes, scorpions,
tarantulas, mice, rats and other vermin whole.

He wondered if they make pets to take on hikes
in the Phoenix Mountain preserve to protect him,
body and soul.

They would be off leash, against laws of the city,
but having them on a leach would be such a pity.

The bird couldn’t run nor fly distances short,
nor catch the critters of a poisonous sort.

So, he guesses he will have to rely
on his snake trained Chocolate Lab, his gift to ply,

to keep him and his wife in a safe place
while they hike in the mountains at a good pace.

And when they get home and he grills some dinner,
if those folks are there again, he’ll tell them

road runners might fly, but a well-trained
Chocolate Lab in the mountains is the real winner.

He felt a nagging ache
on the outside of his right
foot
only to realize he
had popped a bunionette.
Now, isn’t that cute?
But oh, how he would like
such misery to forget.
He mumbled that the
aging process is
for the birds
when he heard
his feet exclaim,
“Forget that bird song.
What about us old dogs?
The birds just peep, but
we will be howling
in sympathy as
you limp along.”
He guessed a point
was made by his
loyal pups.
Until he could have
surgery, he’d give them
relief with hideous
things called drug store
bunionette cups.
He just can’t give
up on his loyal pups.
For twenty-six thousand
miles running, they have
been there every step
along the way.
Forty-five years of
jogging and that ain’t
hay.
So, he’s good to the
old dogs even if
they now howl
instead of bark all
day.

Yes, they have keen eyes and ears
and watch every move, hear every
word, all of them, the soft, tender
words that almost always are spoken
to them by the gods, but the loud,
threatening, scary words that the
gods shout at each other mostly
after the sun goes down and the
gods have indulged in nectar and
libations. It is then that the
children pull the covers over
their heads and hum nursery rhymes
to themselves, over and over and
over until the shouting ceases and
the castle is quiet. Then as they
grow and the resentments mount
they think they know all about
the gods, but they can never, ever
know the longing, the ache, the
remorse, the guilt, the shame and
the incredible love the all-too-
human gods have for each other,
not, at least, until they be-
come gods themselves.