The dog wants to bite,
her muzzle twitching
as she tends to emails and texts.

The dog wakes up and drinks coffee.

When you were a child
you were a charlatan,
your mother told you.

You immediately fell
into the company of mirrors,
disturbed men and women
eating pop tarts at your table.

The dog eats a pop tart.

When there’s a choice
you’ll have wine before supper,
skip preliminaries altogether.

I don’t think she eats,
the cheeky one will whisper.
Our mother is a robot, an android.
She doesn’t need food.

Our mother is magic and can tell the future.

No, no, no,
you want to shout.
The dog wants to bite.