by Brett Rutherford
Banned from our basement
chemistry lab, we boys
huddled to wait
going on the dark
was over with.
Mrs. Avampato
wants puppies, we are told.
Her dog is in there,
thrust in the dark.
Another dog after,
hurled in, confused
and barking.
Wise as we are
beyond our twelve years,
able to make those jars
of rocket fuel, adept
at double decomposition,
stink bombs and smoke,
we have no idea what
is supposed to happen
in the dank dark
beneath our workbench
and its condensers
and retorts. Faust
offers no answer,
nor does my reading
in ancient alchemy.
Eight small feet run
this way and that.
There is much barking.
Then, a loud whine.
"Ma! He's hurting her!"
Sonny shouts up
to the women above.
"I'm going in!"
"Don't you dare!"
Mrs Avampato calls back.
"No one is allowed
to see! Just mind
your own business!"
The whining abates,
then all we hear
is the extended pant
of two canines.
Who knew
that if you wanted puppies
two dogs in the dark
would find a way?
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