I Bathe Radley In Language

I bathe my dog in language. I lift his legs under
spigots of nouns and rinse his
paws in the flow of verbs. Adjectives
mix with the soap on his skin and
run down the drain. I speak to the
cats in full sentences. I envelop them
in the clouds of my dialogue. Run on
sentences free from cumbersome
punctuation wrap around the sisal
of the cat trees, double-helix
staircases of speech.
I hold court with the animals,
an educated gorilla sharing his gift
of language. I lecture my dog as a lawyer
in full paragraphs, thesis statement at the ready,
evidence complied and analyzed to bolster the argument.
I reason with the cats as a philosopher, about form
and function and what it means to be a good, good kitty.

I speak to them in the hopes they may speak back.
I speak to them because I know they understand.
I am met with replies of slowly blinked eyes and
gentle tail wags that arise into their own paragraphs,
condensing meaning into quiet simplicity while
remarking on the inefficiency of language.
And Radley, dog, never much cared for baths anyway.