The Walking Dog God
hangs loose.
She hounds me
while I chop onions,
make beds,
sit to pay bills.
When I stand to stretch
she leaps to her feet.
Her scruffy fur coat
flings white hair
like petals
before the bridal path.
"Come," she commands--
or, "Go"--
out of the door,
out of this house.
I am tethered
in tow behind
her slow sail forward.
Do not assume
she means Go
Somewhere.
Always she takes
the same four blocks,
meanders,
stops for grass,
doggy smells,
and cat shit.
It's all a diversion.
She does not know trees,
bare today,
are trees here
or in Bangkok.
She does not know this bud
will flower,
then shatter.
She does not know
yet insists I learn
by her finite progression
this sky
in all its disguises
covers the world.
© January, 2005
All rights reserved
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3 comments:
Lovely poem. I have a dog who can't be controlled. I wish we could take him for a walk to let him air out some energy.
I love this poem. Glad you decided to share it here. :)) muah!
Oh, I like that so much.
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