Two Tits and A Rabbit

Poems by Roger Pfingston

Last night, while that neurotic bird,
the whippoorwill, repeated itself
in the woods out back, raccoons
chattered on the porch and played
in a bowl of water left for Henry,
our springer spaniel, before they
waddled off, leaving a little
something from their wooded
foraging that my wife, her gaze glued
to the one orange poppy in the garden,
stepped in as she stepped out
this morning, coffee in one hand,
my latest poem, Two Tits
and a Rabbit, in the other. Oh shit,
I heard, oh shit...shit...shit until
I found myself revising in my head
as I booted up the Mac, regretting
again that first-draft ecstasy.