Going Home to my Dog

Do not ask a clergyman
how a loving God allows
the pain you see in the world and his book,
nor ask your friend in a restaurant booth
who pretends to speak with you
while he peels the label from his beer
just when happiness of nations appears
in pidgin English from a kitchen serf
leaving a moment soap and suds
to pass some time with a customer's tad
who doesn't understand her words
but smiles and holds two fingers up.

The house fly that bothered me flies away.
It's time to go home to my cock a poo
who wags her tail every night at eight
to tell me it's time for happy place,
jumps on my lap when I say "Up,"
and wriggles to have her belly rubbed.