Clementine and Meditation

Written on December 5th, 2020

It is, after all, 
a command she understands. 
Sit. 
So we do. 
Stay is harder. 
Rest in the breath is only as good 
as your hammock mind allows,
and currently the swing is occupied by:
ten undone monkeys,
a small, cheerful rat,
an elephant wearing a magician’s cape,
and one very nervous jackalope. 

She doesn’t mind the interlopers, though. 
Age has mellowed her prey drive,
and now she nods to squirrels affably.
It’s dulled her hearing, 
and now she enjoys a 
good fireworks show as much as I do.
Her sense of smell is still acute,
So acute it’s asnorable.

But I don’t baby talk at her 
from my cushion
(for once).

Instead, I put on a serious show.
Eyes closed spine straight hands still legs crossed,
ignoring the hammock menagerie
as they perform circus dives into cups of water
and hoot rudely at the crows overhead.  

What I can’t ignore is her: 
Next to me, she sits better than I do.
But then: 
a jostle, 
a shove that would be rude on the train, 
her head juts under my elbow and
without my permission, she’s in my embrace. 

The sign in my mindsky flashes in neon green: 
DO NOT PET DOG WHILE MEDITATING.

But with a wrist-twist, 
I touch her chest, 
and under my fingers, 
the feel of her rough silk 
becomes my prayer. 
She won’t be here long. 
Nor will I.
Stay.
We try. 

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