overflow.

he wants another dog—
    "pick a puppy from the pound.
    it’s overflowing;
    these dogs won’t last forever."

i want to return
to that first year
when everything he said
sounded right—
yes dripped from my mouth
like the faucet
due to be replaced next week.

he doesn’t want
the love—the tails in our home—
to shrink.
i don’t want to become
the sour woman
i was warned i’d grow into.

still, maybe a puppy—
small, brown,
to keep me company
after he dies.
i already have a few names
in mind—

what is a home, if not overflowing?