Dogs on the Run

I hear my husband singing “Dogs on the Run,”
to the tune of “Band on the Run,” out in the kitchen
where he’s chopping up the worst godawful hotdogs
for a kettle of baked beans to take to the skate park
for street people. I know those hotdogs, because
I bought them, 40 to a pack, dyed blood red,
entrails and toe nails, of chicken, beef, and
pork. Though he scolded me to spend for the better
kind. They deserve the best we can, he said.

About how it’s going for us, I specialize in hoarding
resentments and regrets, to bring out for dramatic effects.
But how can I not forgive him everything, at least
for a day or two, when he sings “Dogs on the Run”
before breakfast while the beans bubble?