Talking With Rosie

When I want to philosophize, bounce the meaning of life back and forth like a table tennis ball, I avoid Plato and Aristotle Nietzsche and Sartre and all that crew that talk above the common man. Instead I speak with my dog, At 11 years of age and of good health and sound mind, her weltanschauung has been carefully blended and cooked, and she is slow to interject when I fly off the handle. And so as we huddle over chicken wings and the heaviness of being, I ask, Why are we here? There is an urgency in her eyes, and her tail flails wildly, and I see the answer: “To feed me.” Hmm, fair enough, I think, but perhaps something broader? “To pet and groom me.” Uh, OK, let’s move on. Why are we, individuals and nations alike, so obstreperous and in each other’s faces? “Because we don’t get fed.” Ah, our souls are hungry. “Or groomed.” And we need to be touched. “Something like that, oh that wing you’re waving like a semaphore looks tasty.” Then what is love? “Feeding and being fed, petting and being petted.” She is distracted, maybe flea bites, so I’ll end with an appropriate kicker: What is death? Her eyes are big and round and almond and deep, and she answers, “Death ends a life, not a relationship, so feed me now, feed me forever.” And I think I shall.

Bluejay

Veteran of old My Poetry Forum before its hiatus. Happy to be back.

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