Stuart says don't put your therapist
in your poem, so my dog tells me

to take solace in small pleasures
like the scent of dish soap. My dish soap

promises blueberry but smells
like medicine kids spit out.

I would take my medicine if I thought
it would bring joy. I scrape meat

from the pan into the trash. My dog says
it's okay to buy food that I know

I won't eat. He tells me to settle for less
then dips his head in the trash

to drag out his dinner. I tell him
that if I punched a face, I'd sooner

break my hand. He tells me
that I just need to practice. I tell him

I'm already picking on someone
my own size and winning.