Kristin Camitta Zimet
The Boxer/Lab Mix Explains

What if the chewy couch
is my layered nouvelle
cuisine, my Café Mozart
blue velour veal poised upon
slippery risotto polyfill?
What if unworked, my jaws
leave me as blind as you
with knocked off glasses, no
limp football snapping back
at muzzle, no rope rasping gums,
no saliva-slick linoleum
saucing the tinkly crunches?
My nose is your New York
Review of Books
, your National
Parks pass, it lets me in.
Paws are my VISA, overcharged
spring for the slithery burner,
sky-stack on top of
fridge, twin butter-scum
holes of the sink. But teeth
deliver the deal, close on
the contract, meet me
in the middle, yield me
homecoming comfort,
necessary textures,
baggie stretch, soapbox
tortilla, cell phone gristle,
fry pan skin-scrape. Pillow
soufflé. These various
assurances, their deep
discipline and scratch.
Cast iron's certainty.
Toilet paper's tenderness.