“Is the music too loud?” she asks
with an underwear-only strut. They
stand out, forest green, against her
with one leg straight and locked,
the other bent, standing balanced
the way one poses when they know
they draw the eye, how do I answer?
I open my mouth to say, ‘no,
Sam Cooke is the greatest,’ but
that childish black lab comes
gallivanting into the room,
complete with dog drool and
a found fake bone, oblivious
to what he’s just ruined.