He Doesn’t Want to Be a Poem
‘Poems are for wimps.
‘I’m a man’s man, see?’
He slaps his gut, a size too large
for the Yankees shirt he’s wearing.
That belly comes in handy
when he needs to rest his beer.
He shouts at coaches, umpies, players.
‘What’s wrong, why can’t they listen?’
His wife puts down her knitting.
‘It’s only just a game.’
‘A game?’ he yells. ‘It’s everything!’
He leans back in his easy chair.
His team screws up, he grabs his chest,
his face turns pasty white.
She calls the ambulance to help,
and then she calls his doctor.
If she wants her husband back,
she’ll have to hide the clicker.
***
Wherever I Go Is a Dog
No place is sacred,
reserved just for humans.
Wherever I go is a dog.
I sit in the chair,
a dog is my backrest.
I pick up a pen,
a dog grabs it.
My cup on a table,
a dog drinks the coffee.
I sit at my desk,
a dog at my feet.
I put on my coat,
a dog tries to get in it.
Forget about sleep,
I am covered in dogs.
I’m not complaining.
Dogs can be useful.
Without them,
there would be no poem.
***
ABOUT THE POET
Nolcha Fox (@NolchaF) has written all her life, starting with poop and crayons on the walls. Her poems have been published in Bullshit Literary Magazine, Storyteller’s Refrain, Dark Entries, Wilder Literature and others. Her chapbook, ‘My Father’s Ghost Hates Cats,’ is available on Amazon.
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