Today I watched a man my age
Walk by again with his dog, old dog
On a contraption with wheels and a platform
For the dog’s failed legs and spine.
It was pathetic and wonderful, but
The only poem in it was when the dog
Fell off the platform, apologetic
And helpless. The furious man.
Who grabbed the animal by the tail
And jerked it back on the wheeled
Sled. Who would have shot the fucking
Dog if he had a gun. Or maybe the poem
Begins when my son heard about this later and said
The man is angry because he can’t help the dog
Any longer. And went back to growing up.
Today my father thinks he woke up completely
Homeless and wandering the hospital
Searching for someone to take care of him.
His new papery voice reminds me of wasp
Nests under the eaves, which they used to burn
With matches and somehow, by some miracle,
The whole house didn’t burn down.
Every spring the same blank-verse miracle,
Burning what you can.
Praying for the rest.
2 comments:
Dr. Franke-
What a happy surprise to find that you have a blog! And this poem . . . after reading, I had to comment. Sometimes I feel like that old dog with the cart for legs, don't we all at some point? I love the images; they speak volumes about states of mind that are otherwise impossible to describe. I hope you submit this somewhere if you haven't yet. It's "lovely"!
Thanks, Liz! This really all happened, and it sort of depressed me. So I tried to write it down without being too sentimental. Appreciate your comments.
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