Rub

I rub my eyes as I wash them. A fish rubs against the bottom of an aquarium as I dream about him. I rub against Tony's pant leg as he stands the kitchen with an open can of "Active Maturity" tuna. A chipmunk rubs the Pope as I sleep on the couch. Tony rubs his chin as I squint, still half-asleep -- the upstairs buzzer jolted me and the dogs upstairs howled, their insecurities rubbing off on each other ("Omigod, someone came home," they bark, "I must pledge obeisance! I must obey!" Fools.) I rub my cheek against the bathtub spigot as water falls. Rumsfeld rubs his hands together as he smells blood. "I rub my language against the other," Roland Barthes says, as if language were a skin. I will rub out the squirrels as they chase each other in the tree outside the living room window.