The Biscuit Giver
I sat on my front porch,
The concrete cool beneath me.
I curved my shoulders forward
And drew my gaze down
While holding out the biscuit.
After the dog’s incursions
Into our yard, my sitting
Aroused its curiosity; perhaps
The breeze carried the scent of biscuit.
He approached in stuttered stabs,
Taking cautious steps
Only to reassess, skitter back
And repeat – ready
For escape at any moment.
For almost an hour, I remained, solid
And unwavering. I did not demand
Nor insist, but simply unfurled
My heart as a haven from mistrust.
I meditate now on my makeshift cushion
Feeling more like that timid dog
Than the biscuit giver. My silence
And noble pose conceal the chaos within.
So what do I seek amidst
My own stuttered steps –
For the world to comply
With my Byzantine rules?
Acclaim and affection
With other more tawdry and
Perhaps it is merely to find
An outstretched hand that calls
Without command to show me
A more sane and gentle way.