My dog makes an omelet for me every morning

POETRY

by Michael Diebert

and one for herself. I open to the fashion section
          to see who’s being dressed, and I sigh

in gratitude for my good luck, all of it. Eyesight,
          working knees, cancer kicked, roof over my head.

My omelet comes over on a polka-dot sandwich plate.
          She’s already scarfed hers, wobbly center,

a touch of pepper. Mine’s a touch more done.
          Her whole body wags as though today’s the day

she will have her say, but I already know
          what she’s saying: Is it okay? Is there enough cheese?

She is thirty pounds of unflagging devotion.
          Every morning I reassure her all is in balance,

the cheese is sharp but not overpowering,
          the texture is fluffy, the scallion slivers on top

make me want to stay home and create.
          And I know what her stare is really saying:

Can I have yours? Is today the day? Will my eight-thirty
          have to wait? My fork is in my hand and moving.

Clearly I’m not above cutting off this corner
          and lowering myself to the floor. Down here,

her coat is redder, more gold, like the leaves
          clinging to the limbs outside my window.