Poems From The Kitchen Table

Care and Feeding

By Billy Collins

Because I will turn 420 tomorrow

in dog years

I will take myself for a long walk

along the green shore of the lake,

and when I walk in the door,

I will jump up on my chest

and lick my nose and ears and eyelids

while I tell myself again and again to get down.

I will fill my metal bowl at the sink

with cold fresh water,

and lift a biscuit from the jar

and hold it gingerly with my teeth.

Then I will make three circles

and lie down at my feet on the wood floor

and close my eyes

while I type all morning and into the afternoon,

checking every once in a while

to make sure I am still there,

reaching down

to stroke my fury, venerable head.

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I first read this poem in my very first poetry class at junior college, introduced to me by my English professor, someone who later became a dear friend. She even invited me and Rick to a novel-character-themed party at her home. I think she must’ve seen something in my poetry back then, even if none of those early pieces survived the years. This poem still reminds me of that time and how it felt to begin seeing the world through a poet’s eyes.