Our mini-schnauzer was sick at the vet’s yesterday—
the same day I took my car to the shop and began
to write this rune in an oil and grime-filled office
that appeared un-cleaned since 1929’s Black Tuesday,
which leads to the reason I sat on a quondam
church bench waiting for my car’s diagnosis
and why I was breathing easier when Al said
there were no mechanical issues,
but my flattened tire tread was a different story,
which leads to why I was driving slower
than usual when I swung by the vet’s afterward
to hear Cupcake’s diagnosis—bladder infection—,
and to my relief that Cupcake’s
recent hits on oriental rugs
weren’t regression or un-trainability,
which leads me to believe the cliché
“when it rains it pours,”
since I lost my phone today in a meeting,
and why I looked forward to a drink
at home and a dose of hard rock escapism
on the way home, only to discover my car radio
refused to cooperate for the first and only time,
which leads to my dismay that I found the phone
hiding deep in a black fold inside my laptop case—
a spot I’d searched over, under, and beside 7 or 8 times—
which leads me to f-ing wonder . . .
is there is a reset button for this week?
D.C. Buschmann is retired. Her poem, “Death Comes for a Friend,” was the Editor’s Choice in Poetry Quarterly, Winter 2018. She has been a finalist in several essay and poetry contests, but has never won anything. Her work appears in anthologies in the US, the UK, Australia, Iraq, and India and has been in or will appear in Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library’s So it Goes Literary Journal, Flying Island, Poppy Road Review, San Pedro River Review, The Great American Wise Ass by Lamar University Press, Rat’s Ass Review, Nerve Cowboy, and elsewhere. Her first chapbook is being pondered.
First published by The Writers Newsletter, March 2019
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