Poem 16: Letters

Today's prompt (for which I have a better frame of mind) asks us to write something in the form of a letter or correspondence: "Your poem can be in the form of a letter to a person, place, or thing, or in the form of a back-and-forth correspondence."

Challenge accepted.

*

Dear Dog:

Stop barking at the window, please.
It makes my inner ear jump and pulse -- disconcerting.
And when we go out for our frequent walks,
I'd like it if you ceased the incessant pulling,
your habit of digging in your considerable claws
(I hear there are some dog owners who
clip those talons, but I'll admit that I'm intimidated
by the thought of snapping off one of your veins,
so you're safe for the duration)
into the muddy turf so that you can reach
the latest turd on your disgusting canine wish list.
And for the love of everything holy, quit
eating crap.

I'm well aware that we're both aging. I've got gray hair
in stripes next to my sagging face,
and you've got a whiting muzzle
that you still jam into a guest's crotch
with the embarrassing vigor of a puppy.
I guess we're both late bloomers, hanging on to
spastic emotional whims with the tenacity
of teenagers.  Please. I'm begging you.
Could we manage this journey with a bit more grace?
Would it be possible to hold ourselves back
from waggish glee and slutty affection
for every passing stranger?

And while we're on the subject, I'd like to request
that you work harder to keep your emotions
from passing like electric signs
over your widening frame --
everyone can tell you despise poodles in sweaters,
that thick-bodied Rotties jogging on the ends
of stabbing choke chains
scare the shit out of you,
and that Ford F150s thrumming by
with faded Bush bumper stickers
and well-stocked gun racks
excite your prejudice
into the stratosphere.
Learn to keep that to yourself, okay?

In return, I promise to love you through thick,
thin and midnight diarrhea,
to feed you expensive kibble
and pay for your delicate digestion
700 bucks at a pop.
I promise to walk you twice a day,
to pick up your poops in rain, shine,
and blizzard conditions,
and to get up at 3 am
when you cry in your kennel.
I promise to keep you going
until your heart or lungs or kidneys
decide to stop ticking.
And I promise (cross my heart
and hope to die)
never to replace you.

Sincerely and forever,
XXXOOO
L.