Nikki said I couldn’t write, she’s got a charming
cant on etiquette – given she’s a bitch (canine
sort, can’t spell too whit, or even write a word
is what I’d heard) but with expressive eyes.
So what she said was no surprise, she’d heard
my lamentations, licked my wrists, wryly rested
forepaws on my knee so I’d desist – and slyly
fixed me with that knowing stare.
You know I’m right, bear with me, you cannot
write to save yourself – best instead you used
the time to feed me diced raw meat – it’s in
the fridge beside the sweet potato.
Her notion settled in my head excusing writer’s
plight – although I liked a last reply; Snick I say,
(my warm diminutive for Nikki), off my lap,
you’re way too fat for snacking meat.
Perhaps you’d like share my pasta carbonara.
© I.D. Carswell, 1998