I write with the sounds of barking dogs,
screaming babies, and angry, unfulfilled neighbors
fighting in the background.
Occasionally, there will be cats fighting
on the rooftop because life loves to be cliché
like cups of coffee in Paris held by snob hands
who wish they had read
as much as they advertise they have.
I reach half the poem and everything falls quiet,
still, ominous, silent,
as if a dagger were about to shoot out of the dark
and lodge itself in the back of my head.
From behind me, I hear the sound of my dog
licking its ass, vigorously and unrelenting.
I stop writing and turn
“Goddamn it, will you stop it?!”
and the dog stops.
I turn towards the laptop once again
and the licking resumes even louder.
I bet my dog would love to spend the afternoon
at a Parisian coffee shop, licking its own ass
for everyone to hear.