The Whole Kit ‘n’ Caboodle

Handier than a set of dull steak knives
and more buoyant than the Duke of Edinburgh,
this here dog in a box is a celebration
of festive times past. Since the dawn
of our current set of circumstances,
nothing has refreshed one’s sense of dignity
more than the knowledge of a particular
string of extraterrestrial occurrences
up over by Lake Uponamawoc–if they’re
to be believed. The results of these
alien encounters are apparent: dogs-in-boxes
are popping up all across the tri-county area,
the calling cards of our benevolent overlords
from the other end of the galaxy. Nobody
knows when this started, but spiritual channelers
have often said this practice predates
the bronze age by a good margin. Our species
may have first learned of both dogs and boxes
through this bizarre ritual, utterly changing
our impressions of storage and animal friendship.

Bustling wind whistles briskly through trees, tall grasses and urban corridors more often than any other location on Earth, at least for the time being. Tomorrow may tell a different story, bringing gusts to sand dunes and mountain summits, but the objective is always the same no matter where the brunt of nature’s force takes place: gather together enough energy to knock a 200-pound man off his feet with ease and judge his reaction as impartially as possible. Usually the man will exaggerate how much of an impact the wind made, even if there’s nobody around. He’ll throw up his arms nine times out of ten and yell, “Wowee, sure as hell caught me by surprise!” Again, this transpires more often than not even if nobody else is within earshot; the typical male human is steeped in macho tradition, concerned more with saving face than ensuring immediate bodily safety.

Hitherto underrepresented is the full range of emotion you’d associate with a mood ring. You’ve only ever managed to have your ring turn blue–from cornflower to navy–though most folks you know swear they’ve turned theirs putrid green in a fit of rage. Maybe their rings never went in the laundry by accident. All right, no need to lose your temper. Each passing moment now brings you closer to hurling this piece of knock-off jewelry from a fourth-story balcony. The thought of throwing the ring away produces no new emotional hues while it’s still on your finger, though the turmoil in your head should surely at least cause a minor change. What a waste of six dollars; if only you’d remembered that truck stops never sell anything actually worth the money it costs.

Flooding the basement with turkey gravy is just the beginning, though it took 26 hours to prepare all that gravy and I haven’t gotten any sleep since starting the process. The gravy needs to at least come up to your shins, or it can’t be called a legitimate flood. I’ve decided against trying to float on my back in the stuff, I don’t need my whole body drenched with a substance that brings to mind those old elementary school turkey lunches at the beginning of the week of Thanksgiving, with potatoes and canned green beans, maybe a piece of droopy pumpkin pie. Once the taste for flooding has been satisfied, digging a hole to China in the backyard is a logical next step. All the cartoons from my youth assured me that it’s possible, and I won’t rest until I burrow through the core of the planet–though more than likely I’ll run out of energy and pass out after I’ve dug about 20 feet down.

A squirrel hurls
itself forth
from a blossom
of the eldest
poplar tree
in the vicinity

to a younger
specimen, digging
into the suppler bark
and scaling the tree
like it’s nothing

until it twitches
and clutches at air,
missing solid matter,
falls ass-backwards
for seventy-five feet,

and is caught
by a hiker who
saw this transpire
and thought about
letting the furball
drop to the ground–
it would have bounced.

You’re unsure
of what brought you
here as you stand
right next to the
secretary of a
highfalutin executive-type,
deftly denting
the coffeemaker
with a rubber mallet,
unwittingly uncovering
the rattling inner-workings
of that percolator’s psyche,
cracks and creaks
that were never meant
to come across
this superior’s oaken desk,
unsettling his thoughts
while a way to compete
with eastern markets
must be devised
before midnight tomorrow
or these investors
will be pissed.

“Mr. Gamble is trying
to have some peace
and quiet, sir.
I suggest taking
your rubber mallet
elsewhere for now.”

“Oh, this mallet
isn’t mine. I found it
on the floor
when I got here.”

“I thought it looked
familiar. I lost mine
an hour ago, thought
it ran away from me.”