Dogs, Bifocals

Today was the day, held ctrl, 

slowly splayed my fingers on the trackpad,

the cat's paw in my knee,

and the screen came back to me.

I've worn glasses most my life, so this 

addition of what will never come back

is new as was the exaggerated gasp

that began to accompany every dog shit

round which I slalomed the pushchair.

I never saw it come on,

suddenly my words were

dominated by dogs,

by this is what happens:

we go to the dogs.

Dogs are humans too, so I shan't go

where I want to go but yes,

my mind turned, my words dominated

by dogs and humans are lonely too

and perhaps too distracted or

dumb or sad to scoop shit

but humans are lonely too

and is this what happens then, when I 

can no longer see the screen 

it's the trick of youth that I should

see the screen forever so it must

be the fault of youth

and, and that dogs are humans too,

and guileless too, 

you truly get back what you put in,

they can't flip a plate,

or grow older and remind you your

words no longer or ever did carry weight,

I reduced the zoom again to prove a point,

I can barely see the screen anymore,

dogs don't just up and leave,

and spend a lifetime in Crocs,

go to the deli, bong in hand.

I am rooting for dogs in good faith,

it will hold, and I must believe

that the scream I felt in December will

forever remain silent:

waiting for coffee whilst the barista

lost her absolute mind over

a dog, a dog that was not hers,

that would have loved her anyway

and I thought of all the dogs

and all the people

and how invisible a pushchair essentially makes you,

no-one crowds round,

no-one shakes you by the hand,

no-one loves you for your son,

who will one day scream I hate you,

which will, and I'm sorry, be so much more

than a bite on the hand,

my dog bit me once

and I look at the scar and think,

this sweet, complicated creature did that,

this box of ashes on 

my mum's mantle.

It took some will to turn and walk then

from this barista's unbridled,

performative joy.