Domestic

Some days you scratch incessantly 

at the sliding glass door.

I sit on the other side,

sip my coffee and smoke

on our box-shaped back porch.

When I open it, you just 

stare at me, bored with it all.

You really just wanted to know 

If you still could - if the decision 

is still your’s to make.

You decide that it is,

but you choose the couch

with your favorite colorful throw 

on the sagging couch pillow perch.

Other times you pad timidly

between the cement patio and 

the beige tile of the living room.

You sniff the air, turn in circles,

hem and haw about 

responsibility and choices.

Ultimately, you decide to stay put.

So I shut the door.

The sliding glass between us 

belies a sense of freedom.

Is this domestication?

To believe one still has a choice 

from behind the glass?