My standard poodle ate Walt Whitman
(Leaves of Grass in ropey coils on the lawn)
I stoop and wrap my fingers around
warm Song-Of-My-Self turds.
She winces at the stanza
that she squeezes from her anus.
Do I constipate myself?
Very well then
I constipate myself.
I am large.
I contain multitudes.
And I wonder if Whitman
had to work so hard
to get his words out
in the first place.
