In Lieu of Answers

Today’s a wet dog
and if that lady upstairs
doesn’t stop practicing for the catwalk in galoshes
I’ll die
an even slower death
than I thought I would
walking Roger in the rain.
Now Roger’s working his whimper
into a wave, and asking him why
won’t get much of a response
unless I bark at the ceiling,
“Why rent an apartment if you never sit down!”
then collapse into a chair
that resembles a giant beach ball—
Roger’s cue to send in a howl of wind
and the clatter of his old teeth
for emphasis. Of what, though?
asking a dog questions
is like pleading with ceilings or probing
the bedraggled day itself. Can you tell me
how to get to tomorrow? If
it isn’t raining there. Otherwise
I’ll let the wind trudge on after
another day’s questions alone
and declare myself done.