Poem in a Poopy Bag

they wonder what I can write about
every day; they don’t know I
often stare at this computer screen
at 11 p.m., cursing this misguided
dedication to the written word, this
ideal that there is something worth
writing about, and then as I sit, I
remember what M. said that was
so funny, or the look at D’s
face as we rerouted around the
pixels that make us puke and she
gave me another poem title and how
someone who is not a dog person
has poopie bags in all her pockets.
Must be to capture all those moments
in life that otherwise would get
away.