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Didja Ever Have One of Those Days . . . | by faith goble
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Didja Ever Have One of Those Days . . .

where you just wanted to put a pillow on your head and snuggle up to someone you (sorta) love?


This photo (retitled "Let Sleeping Dogs Lie") was one of six featured on Yahoo's home page in a photo essay entitled "Sweet Dreams"on July 10th, 2009, garnering over 29,000 views in one day.


Dog Day Afternoon (with Apologies to Director Sidney Lumet)


I could fry an egg

On the patio

If I wanted to,

Though why I’d want to

I don’t know.


The atmosphere itself is beat

And banking on a holiday

Till it falls hostage to the heat,

So here it is, here it will stay.

For the torpor born in these torrid times

Engenders dreams of cooler climes

And makes the air grow dull and bland

Then robs it of all scratch and sand—

Now it’s just lying on the ground


And its tongue is hanging down.


From its white steel vault,

The sun lambastes the land

Till the earth seems to quake in fright;

Hotheaded habaneros have run amuck

While the zinnias rise in riot.

The oxeye daisies just stand and stare,

Too dogged to wilt in the stifling air;

And the once-dapper little French marigolds

Are roasting in their pot

And thinking about bailing out

Because it’s grown so hot.


The red-faced tomatoes collared

By the pickets in the garden plot

Are now clustered round a Big Boy

Holding forth at the edge of the lot.

First they simmer and then they steam;

They bitch and then they whine

About how the lives that they have led

Are undeserved

And better due a dog instead.

They point out the pumpkin vines

Who climbed the fences first

And left only their roots behind

Confined in the captive dirt.

Some of the ruddiest, ripest ones

Almost burst with thin-skinned rages;

The others plan midnight escapes

From their crowded metal cages.


Sentenced for some ancient crime,

Tired trees are doing hard time

Busting up rocks in the hardpan,

Respiring damply where they stand

Overseen by the hard-boiled sun;

They’d love to make a break for it,

But they’re too old to run.

They long to shed their binding leaves

And dance untrammeled in the breeze,

For they know that soon

They’ll have to freeze

In the coming winter’s night—

And their bark can’t match its bite.


Flowers in grass widowhood

Bear seeds of doubt with drooping heads

And languish alone in weedy beds;

While shrinking at their bootless feet,

Bluegrass has slunk into retreat

And now is lying low and drawn

And hangdog on the sapless lawn,

But Johnson grass in a ravening pack

Won’t cut the flowers any slack.


Like laundry pinned upon the line,

Bereft in the scorching sky,

Caught clouds are left

Just hanging there,

Left hanging high and dry,

Bleached and beaten by the savage sun,

Doing time as the time goes by.

The clouds are growing frail and pale

And cannot bulk and boom,

But the husky dogs have staked out a claim

To the couch in the living room.

The pillows are their prisoners;

The dogs won’t set them free,

And their chicken-hearted featherbrains

Can’t hatch a plot to flee.

Now every dog must have his day

Of glory in the sun,

But it’s better yet to stay inside

And make hay while its course is run.


But perhaps if I had broken free

Of the imprisoning heat

And its legacy of lethargy

And risen from my seat

To fry those

Aforementioned eggs

Al fresco on the patio,

The dogs would rise,

Give up my captive couch alive,

And deign to dine



taken from Elementa (Loosey Goosey Press, 2008)

Faith Goble


You can read Luan Gaines' review of Elementa at

and an interview at

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Uploaded on June 6, 2009