Day three is a two-fer Tuesday, write a stop poem, or a don’t stop poem, or both, or neither…
Gonzo (who may think his name is Stop)
was supposed to stop growing at forty
but hit sixty and kept on going,
his first-year growth matching so well
his daily need for more and more and more,
like five trips outside in ten minutes
because squirrels exist and pinecones are delicious
but then there may be treats in the kitchen
or practice sessions with the steady sit, touch, spins
or a chance to dive-bomb the couch windows
if an unknowing pedestrian gets too close,
his dingo-dog shovel-nose streaking the glass
before heading back outside for more.
I need less
boxes of memories
lines form and reform on my face
why did I come into this room?
my ears ring over the music
what’s the name of that thing?
I can’t hold my drink like I once did
what’s been the point of this all?
this slowing down is going fast