An Assist

The clattering of a spoon breaks me out of my early morning lethargy, that son-of-a-bitch dog is eating my breakfast.

I could measure out a new bowl, it doesn’t matter much— none of this matters— but the bathroom scale was unkind— let us not speak of it.

Perhaps this is the universe bending low, lending a hand or a paw, or really, an opportunistic licking.

So I content myself with moping about the trials of dieting and poorly trained Boxers.

Lamenting the things that are within your power to change, to improve— really, everything is there you can pour another bowl— it’s unattractive. Take the assist and move on with your morning.