Because I will turn 420 tomorrow
In dog years
I will take myself for a long walk
along the green shore of the lake,
and when I walk in the door,
I will jump on my chest
and lick my nose and ears and eyelids
while I tell myself again and again to get down.
I will fill my metal bowl at the sink
with cold fresh water,
and lift a biscuit from the jar
and hold it gingerly with my teeth.
Then I will make three circles
and lie down at my feet on the wood floor
and close my eyes
while I type all morning and into the afternoon,
checking every once in a while
to make sure I am still there,
reaching down
to stroke my furry, venerable head.