Morning Class with Sanford

Reading poems out loud to my dog
who is stretched out on the bed
like he owns it because he does.

I start with a Polish poet whose pose
on the book cover invites me
Don’t dread growing old.

Sanford’s eyes wander to the ceiling
where a stinkbug claims its territory
for the time being.

I switch tone and cadence to a contemporary
American poet who sees the underbelly
of a country that once was.

    That was a glorious time when everyone
    knew right from wrong and there were lessons
    to be learned on TV.

        That was a time when hardly anyone ventured
        out of bounds except to retrieve their baseball
        or Cardinals cap blown off in the wind.

I read aloud some Billy Collins and his tail
wagged like a metronome. I swear I saw
him smile on page 42.

Too soon he reminds me that it’s time
for recess and a bathroom break. He’s been
a perfect student

    and begs me not to read any Charles
    Bukowski. I promise him that it’s not
    likely and he seems fine
    with that.