Poem of the Week

IDIOT IN THE PET STORE

The chunk gravy dog food on the formica counter waits

to be thrown over my shoulder, carried

home and fed to my hungry Jack Russell Terrier;

he’s not a picky consumer.

As I hand my credit card to the cashier,

the lady behind me eyes

my selection with disapproval, says,

distain oozing from her voice,

“You mustn’t love your dog,”

this because the dollar signs on my dog food

aren’t as high as hers.

I suppose I should expect it.

People like her

put their pets up in Ritz Carlton kennels

with Perrier water and studded collars,

and take them to pet shrinks.

You listen here, lady.

Each year I sacrifice my time and resources

for the country of Haiti,

where malnourished, bloated bodies are normal,

where they make kissy faces with outstretched arms

begging for one more bite,

begging for Gourdes to buy rice

so their families back in their refrigerator box shacks

can stop boiling cardboard for soup.

Where stained and tattered rags

are common fashion.

Where people die before they turn forty

from old age and diseases

we long thought extinct.

Lady, please forgive me

if I someday sneak your dog off to Haiti

so a few might eat.