it’s early in the morning
and I’m standing here, yawning
by the back door
stalling
halfheartedly calling
for Stanley to come crawling
from where he’s currently sprawling
like a starfish on Xanax
or Jean-Paw Marat in a house of wax
hanging out the bath after fifty whacks
dramatically slumped
fatally bumped
not at all zesty, the flipside of pumped
canine flatline, doggie defunct
a string-cut puppet, totally junked
carelessly dumped
on the sitting room sofa
a laid-up,
paid-up
free-style loafer
at the kinda
insider
trade show you go for
the slacker campaigns you’re totally known for
lifestyle guidance, juicy hacks
to flip your potential and loaf to the max
innovative ways to recline and relax
the apostate
of agitate
the kinda mind
even Frankenstein couldn’t animate
numero zero
zilch pzazz
the nap in snappy, the Zees in jazz
giving it nearly everything he has
which isn’t really an awful lot
and is he ready for his walk yet?
(no, he is not)