2-6 Senioritis



Helical spirals spliced into a pit bull-boxer,

Roxy yawns a pink cavernous maw,

teeth sharp as thistle thorns,

then she sleeps, twitches, dreams of chasing

backyard squirrels or a hurled leather bone


and seconds later all this is memory.


Seems my life is always past tense.

Me? A reconstruction of reminiscences

like Roxy’s yawn a moment ago—

no longer now, but then.


I am memory, a half-step behind awareness

stretching longer and blunter each decade’s breadth


as life shortens between trips to grocery shop

or physician tests.


The dog snores. Did she yawn a while ago or was that yesterday?


Never mind.