What's In A Name?

The support group

For poorly named animals and pets

Meets each week in New York

Near a Baskin-Robbins

With a C health rating,

Home of the original cone of uncertainty.

Disgruntled home companions,

Some with skills,

Others not so much,

Converge in room 202,

While those with

Species concerns

Gather across the hall in 203.

Lately,

The 202 clientele features

Several brands of poodle,

Whose high-pitched rants

Shed light on the angst of those

Distressed by being saddled

With tags that read,

Blossom.

Or Precious.
Or - gag -

Cutesy Pie.

“I mean, how insulting,”

Said CP, gnawing at her

Vermillion collar,

And drooling a bit

For no damn reason.

“You know Rodney Dangerfield?

That’s my life.
No respect.
I’m a joke.”

In her excitement
CP coughed up

Part of her lunch.

“Watch the carpet,”

Said the host,

A black lab named Shaft.

A wheezing bulldog

Someone decided

Should answer to Hurricane

Checked out the litter box

And said, “Fuck this.”

Shaft caught wind

Of the pending spray,

And cautioned,
“Outside, Cane boy.”

A couple of tabbys

One gray,

The other orange,

Arrived late.
They were adopted

By a family that really wanted a dog.

Thus, Mutt and Jeff had plenty to share.

“Circle up,”

Shaft suggested.
And after some hemming,

Hawing, and vague heeing,

Chairs were moved

And the evening’s therapy began.

Across the hall,

Things were, as usual,
Out of control.
Nobody wanted

To honor the non-violence clause

In the support group handbook.

Cheetahs, for instance,

Chased prairie dogs,

Totally ignoring

The peaceful

Co-existence mandate.

Meanwhile, a couple of guys,

Who looked like gophers

Dressed as puppets,

Or perhaps rats on stilts,

Demanded their turn
To state their case.

“Basically, it comes down

 to self image,”
Said the taller gopher-rat,

while his shorter companion,

A beer man from way back,

Wondered what was on tap
At The Moose Patio,
Just across the street.

“What time do they close?”

Short boy said

To no one in particular.
He’d come along

for the after party;

Figuring what’s in a name?

Assorted creatures from

All across the globe

Tried to out violin each other,

Asking with horrific expressions

Such queries as

“Would you like

 To be called a laughing hyena?

What’s so fucking funny?”

 Finally, the moderator,

An unobtrusive beetle who

Maintained a stern, serious attitude —

Puffy to the point of rude —

The animal kingdom’s version

Of a grumpy law professor

Who needed a prune in the worst of ways,

Stepped to the podium

With a power point presentation script

And a fresh clicker.

“I’d like to remind everyone

That it can always be worse.
Let’s take a look.”

The unruly group

Gradually came to order

As images of those less fortunate

Tumbled across the screen.

The Mountain Chicken, for instance,

Which is a ditch frog in the Caribbean;

The White Bellied-Go-Away Bird,

An African native which looks

As either Denis Rodman

Or a North Korean does its hair;

A Tassled Wobbegong,

An Australian carpet shark,

Whose name brings to mind
A preppy shoe

One might find

In an REI outlet

Run by Dr. Seuss.

A Boops Boops,

A sunbeam fish that dwells

In the eastern Atlantic;

An Aye-Aye,

A lemur found in Madagascar.

“That’s all very well and good,

But I still have my own concerns.”

Said the tall gopher-rat.

“First of all
I object to being called a kat.
I’m not a damn kat.
I’m a mongoose.
That’s insulting.

But to be called a Meerkat.
Well, that’s unacceptable.
A meer cat?
What the fuck does that mean?
Are there merehawks?
Merecows?

Meredeer?”

The moderator twisted

His head in the pained manner

Of someone

Who has seen

And heard too much
Too many times.
“Our task in this group
Is to accept

What we

Can’t change.
You bleat

This rant every week.
Are we not

Getting through to you.”

The tall meerkat said,

 “Blah, blah, blah.
What do you know about it?
Who put you in charge?
How did you get this job?”

In his best John Houseman-

Paper Chase voice,

The beetle said,
“Perhaps it’s

The name of my kind.”

“Yeah?

And what would that be?”

With the angst of a lifetime,

The beetle closed his file

And muttered,

“Colon Rectum.”

Butter Gravity

Each morning

The body

Is tight,

Almost distant,

Like a stick of Land O Lakes

In the fridge.

Imagine

Taking that butter

And putting the dish

On an ever so slightly warm surface,
Where time

And that gentle heat

Provide the ultimate massage.

Constructive rest

Uses the same principle.

Breathing, the floor,

And time merge

Into a healthy alliance:

Their purpose

Is simply

To help

You let it all go.

And you can.

Imagine you’ve

Been prone,

Perhaps asleep,

In an Arctic space;

You mull a bit

As you slowly

Begin the thaw

By easing

Onto the floor.

Eventually,

You find the heart

Of your breath —

The rise and fall

So very much

Like the rhythm

Of the tide —

That steady beat

That invites
You to sink

Into nothing,

But soon
You soar,

Set totally free
When you sense

The sun is bringing dawn

From beneath the floor

Through the firmness

In your back.

The journey begins.

And …

When you allow

Your breathing

To map the path,

It’s all downhill.