SLOBBERY LOVE (a poem)

Tuesday, August 12, 2025

Up with dog yapping—
the kind of dawn
you could bottle and sip,
half war film,
half nectar of gods.
The Hunt for Red October in the corner,
curled-up hogs in canine form,
wet paws still cooling from the morning run,
snuggling into our small kingdom
after the jaunt.

One is resting,
deep-breath dreaming.
The other snoots at the folds,
nesting and kneading
the thick-yarned blanket
with a devotion
both fierce and unnecessary.

My hand is claimed by a lick,
and then—
an arm snakes over,
warm as home,
while the other hand clacks
at the CPU keys
to catch the meaning
before it escapes into the blur.

A cough.
A quake.
My body jerks,
and I remember—
I remember the titan days,
when I was invulnerable.

A miracle—
the restless come to rest,
that warm little hog snoring on my chest.
7:09,
and I’m still half-managing the story machine,
waiting for Sean Connery
to burn up the original orders.

Then—
one more shudder,
deep from the bone hinge,
a hack that tears up through me,
leaves my ribs rattled
and my eyes wet.
A cleansing breath—
or maybe just a curse in disguise.
Forget it.

Poor poopy,
damn near ejected
at the blast,
skittered like I’d fired a starter pistol.

I can’t even let this soft peace be—
another crack,
and I’m reaching for the coffee
and a vaporizer.

“Babe, I’m gonna leave,”
yearning in the background,
that Zeppelin crying for redemption,
howl-at-the-moon moment—
just a recollection for this old frame,
a descent from those heights.
The worm is wiggling,
all because I got excited
and clapped the keys faster.

It’s the anthem for getting out alive—
or at least making it through the morning.

A few more clacks—
we can do it.

Now, in the quiet,
I am nothing but fragile,
still aching for the press of fur,
the warm tumble of bodies in reach,
the playful spark in their eyes
just before they pounce again.

Calm down now—
let’s just rest,
burrow into this high tower,
this shrine of slobbery love.