Luigi sprawls on the laminate floor
and regards the contents of the bookshelves.
A menorah, a telescope,
Dali’s depictions of the four seasons.
He is very fond of being a beagle,
his only complaint is the soundtrack
that his master leaves playing for him
when he exits the apartment they share.
It’s classical music. The only thing
Luigi hates more than classical music
is the cat who rubs its ass up against
the sliding glass door on Wednesdays.
Luigi is almost tall enough to reach
the laptop with his paws and contemplates
attempting to hit the square things
in front of the screen that look
like square black pieces of kibble.
He desires a more adventurous soundtrack.
Perhaps jazz, or maybe some blues.
Luigi has dreams about a French poodle
who sings to him in a cafe. In between
her sets, they drink shots of espresso
and talk about art. In these dreams,
he is always wearing a tuxedo and a fedora,
she is clad in a blue cocktail dress
that fits snuggly against her curly white fur.
Instead of dreaming, today he is stuck with Handel.
At 1 PM, the cat will lewdly rub itself against the glass.
At 3 PM, Luigi will patrol the floor for crumbs.
At 5:15, he will sit in front of the door,
eagerly awaiting the return of his master
and the death of Handel.