O Eternal Worrier, you strive to lick
your prints from every surface. O Six-Legged God,
O Tiny Resurrectionist, if I begged
you to stop, would you stop, would you nod
your clockwork head, would you promise to rot
in the corner after I’ve squashed you, silent
and uneager to raise your children from the dead?
Perhaps you aren’t to blame, O Careless Parent.
You spread your seed only where it takes,
and I left the dishes uncleansed, the fruit
clogging the trash with its seductive scent.
Dogged Companion, you wear your dark suit
with pride, eager to mourn whatever dies.
I’m not your friend! You’re not mine! What lies
we tell. I love the living, and you, the dead.
And here we are again, breaking bread.