Dog goD 8Hate (Grass Valley, Ca.)
Nicky writes in restaurants while waiting
for her check, sending thoughts to her pen
for a paper-napkin too minuscule in scale;
much runs off onto the table tops for later
diners to blot up, and with awkward elbows,
arms solely seeking to lever, and for
easy access to the meal. But then, possibly,
a waiter wipes all residues up first
and rinses the rag at a drain …?
Nicky doesn't like the cogent designs of some,
and/or cognizant others. Some would in a way
sympathize, though, with the usefulness of that
paper-napkin, and as a tissue to blow their nose.
Is this tragic?
I don't know, i wonder what goD, thinks?
Comments about this poem (Nicky's Napkin by Dog goD 8Hate )
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