Drool and Drive

He sits like royalty in the backseat,  

tongue flickering out, testing the wind.  

The road unspools in front of us,  

but behind, a tide pools on leather.  

I keep a towel folded neatly,  

its corners frayed from too many trips.  

Sacred armor against the flood he brings,  

his joy dripping in slow, deliberate bursts.  

Each globule a punctuation mark—  

exclamation! question? period. Every splash  

says, “I am here, and I love this.”  

The seats bear witness, stained with devotion.  

I glance at him in the mirror,  

ears flapping, eyes half-shut in bliss.  

The highway hums a lullaby,  

and his throat hums back, unbothered.  

What a genius he is,  

to soak the world in his excitement,  

to make messes and not apologize.  

A wrecking ball of glee, uncontainable.  

My towel, a small sacrifice for joy.  

For the dog who teaches me  

to be unashamed of my overflow.