Carbonara eyes

Nicky said I couldn’t write, she’s got a charming
sense of social etiquette – given she’s a bitch
(the canine sort, can’t spell for shit or even write
a word) but then she has the most expressive eyes.
So what she said was no surprise, she’d heard
my lamentations, licked my hands, rested forepaws
on my knee and fixed me with that knowing stare.
It said, bear with me, you know I’m right, you can’t write
to save yourself, it might be better if you used the time
instead to feed me diced raw meat – it’s in the
fridge beside the sweet potato. With that notion
running through my head I’m thus excused
from writer’s plight although I’d have to have
the last hurrah. Snick (my warm diminutive
for Nicky), I said, get off my lap,
you’re way too fat for meat.
Perhaps you’d like share my pasta carbonara.
© I.D. Carswell