If when I'm walking Lucy alone
in the morning
and she whirls quick while squatting
underneath a tree, smearing
just a little
dogshit on her leash—
if I realize
with some weird delight
upon reentering our home that I can probably
squeeze a bit of dish soap
on a wet paper towel and scrub it away that way
without resorting
to my previous plans
of either putting this tiny thing in the washing machine
of else having to waste an entire wet Swiffer cloth
to do the same job (because let's face it
those things are expensive)—
if a second idea then occurs to me, once again
with appreciably peculiar
levels of excitement:
"I can totally dry this thing
a little more speedily that I'd imagined
by curling it up to strategically
fit on top of a small
metal heating vent
on the floor near the kitchen sink
and Kate will probably
never even need to know!"—
Who shall say I'm not
whatever I dare them not to?
