Worse Than The Bite

Memories, won't you please just follow orders,
turn your noses to the garlic at the door,
to the noises in the upper registers

that travel fast and are only heard by feel?
Can't you stay on the leashes you were given,
starred with boredom, rather than trying

to rustle up despair? What will it help
to meditate on how you've lost your window,
your one chance? You've still got space

for expansion, no need for yellowed suitcases
to drag when you go. Weary-cheeked,
argumentative, but it's obvious you haven't

lost control: it's just a question of keeping
going, sniffing further till you can trace,
from five feet off, a half ripe pear.

Copyright © 2010 Rebecca Givens Rolland All rights reserved
from Barn Owl Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission