Gum

I pluck stretchy, stringy,
fruity, flavors from
beige tile,
school books,
Birkenstocks.

He relishes
chewing it.
Chomping globs
leaving pieces
peeking out from
white shag carpets,
under clothes,
his hair.

Creating chaos,
with no concern
for time I take
to pry,
peel,
unstick,
undo,
all his messes.

I yell, chase him
through the house
finding traces
on lace pillows,
in my hairbrush,
inside my laptop.

Oh why,
did I ever
share
my bubblegum
with Wilfred,
my Saint Bernard?

—Joan Raymond

Joan Raymond, a member of WOK since January 2012, completed her BA in English/Creative Writing in Fall 2014 and MA in English/Creative Writing in early 2017. She writes women’s fiction, creative non-fiction, and children’s picture books, and dabbles in poetry.