Parenthetical by Robert L. Penick

11:45 on a Sunday morning, the dog asleep at your feet.

Thirty-three degrees outside and a drizzle threatening

to morph into something more sinister.

Perhaps daggers will fall from the concrete sky

and pin every hope to the ground, the way gravity

snares our feet, but without the certainty.

You have been thinking a lot lately,

which is always a bad idea,

about the past (bad idea), old loves (bad idea),

and what to do with all the time remaining.

(The worst idea of all,

seeing what you might cram into your brain

before it is unplugged and, if you truly wanted

to visit Stonehenge, you’d have already gone).

But the dog yawns, sneezes, shakes herself,

awake, looks at you with a request.

You will spend much life at the end

of your leash, walking, braving

the ice pellets of each passing event.

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The poetry and prose of Robert L. Penick have appeared in over 100 different literary journals, including The Hudson Review, North American Review, and Plainsongs. More of his work can be found at theartofmercy.net