The Bump

I was talking to the bump last night; the bump hasn’t got a name It might be one or t’other, either’s fine Explaining through your mother how we play the waiting game How she’s giving of herself to make you mine

15 Years of age

When I was fifteen years of age there wasn’t a thing I didn’t know Now I don’t know half of what’s going on At fifteen years of age you start unlearning as you go Until all the things you think you know are gone

Death of a Dog

For Sadie and Poppy, for Bo-bo and Duke For all of the dogs that have gone Your tail may have wagged for the last time But your doggishness deeds will live on Second in line to the social Maybe better than better than half Echoing all our emotions Every shade of blue, every laugh You