She epitomizes entropy.
Disorder makes her happy.
She may not be conscious
that it makes her happy.
It may be all in my mind.
She bites a hole in the Italian
leather sofa.
The bite is joy.
The hole merely consequence.
I can’t say she understands
or doesn’t understand.
She doesn’t stand back
to admire the hole.
The filling scattered
like clouds over the floor.
“IONA!” I yell.
She hides under the dinner
table.
I feel good she grasps
guilt and consequence.
It may be all in my mind.
Maybe she was bored.
Bored with life.
Bored with me.
Bored with the sofa.
Bored with her pricey wagyu
breakfast.
She looks at me with teary eyes.
Guilt wells in my throat.
It may be all in my mind.
She’s eaten the rugs,
the chairs.
I don’t care anymore.
Nobody comes to visit.
Nobody comes to praise
the buttery Italian leather.
Entropy—Iona’s way.
If only in my mind.
