The dogs in the back seat are doing
what
they do best, that is, being themselves.
Someone
told me not to use gerunds but I wasn’t listening I’m not listening still.
(The
problem with) you know what I mean? (Is)
no,
I don’t
I
don’t know what you mean.
Anyway
I wasn’t listening.
The
dogs, I imagine, want dinner and I want
the
wind in my hair and another glass of wine and to have slept
enough.
Someone told me.
The
guy on the radio wants something else. And he keeps singing about it but I
can’t quite hear
because
the window is rolled down and one dog’s head is on my shoulder and I’m turning
my head to say
this.
I want something.
Something
like this. This list I could write
which
you should already know by heart and if you don’t just read the fucking news.
There’s
just not enough room for everything. Everything I want.
I
want death not just to be not proud but not to be. Or at least
to
put off being just a little longer.
I
want enough room. Excuse me
I
want to know, is it not sexy to want so much? And still
to
be so small.
The
guy on the radio wants something else.
Here’s
where I say: the knife
left
on the windowsill is getting wet from the rain.
Here’s
where you sigh.
