GROOMING
by April Halprin Wayland
One mud-spotted,
monkey-vomit-yellow,
XXXXL, men’s hooded sweatshirt:
check.
One pair of paw-stained,
dull blue,
quilted men’s sweatpants:
check.
One pair of
indeterminate-colored
extra-thick men’s socks:
check.
One pair of dusty grey,
fifteen-year-old running shoes,
tossed in the Goodwill bag, then retrieved:
check.
One pair of old guy
scratched black, wrap-around plastic sunglasses
that Uncle Davie gave me when he moved:
check.
One bouncing-off-the-wall,
lanky, licky,
too-tall teenaged dog:
check.
There’s no disguising it:
I’m a dog park dork.
Poetry Prompt:
Observation, said my mentor, Myra Cohn Livingston, is the key to good writing. One day I looked, really looked at what I wear at the dog park in winter–oy!  Check all fashion sense at the double gate. Your best friends there are wacky, passionately friendly, and they have big, muddy paws.
It’s your turn. Slow down. Be present. Observe one facet of your life. How do people in your galaxy dress? Or look for one color all day long. What’s bright yellow? What’s your attitude about this thing you’ve observed? Does it make you laugh? Make you feel self-conscious? Make you want to run out of the room howling? Write a poem so that we see it through your eyes.
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