Canine theme. Two very different efforts.
AMORES PERROS
Sure, I like dogs.
But what I like best
is a dog with his very own
little old lady or little old man.
When I spot one from across the street,
or headed straight toward me on the
pavement,
I start to bat my eyelashes,
smear a big gooey grin
all over my face,
and if they stop,
I squat,
hands out,
like I'm the one
begging some attention.
You'd think I'm lonely or something
craving a little softness in my life:
soft
pomeranian – cockapoo – lab puppy –
fur, soft
little old lady hands with rings
permanently embedded, soft
old man cashmere sweater hazed with
decades' worth
of pre-war cologne. Little olds and
little dogs
walk in special clouds, their own
protective forcefields.
It's a super power,
being cute.
Am I wrong to want
to charm my way into
the inner circle of the elderly
and their surrogate children, so much
sweeter
than the first batch, sweeter even than
the grandkids?
Third time really is the charm. Good
things do come to those who wait.
But I'm impatient, want it now, block
the sidewalk,
bold bodily beseeching: Love me,
please!
If I had a tail I'd wag it.
I'd roll over—
rub my belly, please!—
I'll lick your hand, take whatever
you want to give me. To hold, to be
held,
collar, leash, and all; lilac, bay rum,
laundry soap;
let your smells wash over me, security
of all familiar
rituals and gestures. Oh, let me be
your puppy!
I understand now, what hope there is
lies in knowing that someday
we will all be old,
and some of us
will walk with dogs
to love us and to love.
THE MOTIONS
1.
The leaves have gone from yellow,
slick like paper maché
still wet,
to
brown and alive,
parched
leather skittering the pavement:
small
animals we only dream to be.
2.
The
little red fox was still there,
on
the white line that keeps cars
on
the Interstate: stretched
and
motionless, pelt of flame
unscathed
and emptying.
Tempting
me today,
as
the morning before,
to
pull over, stop and gather him,
curl
him someplace warm, something says,
He
shouldn't be out in the wind and the rain,
he
shouldn't be out in the wind and the rain—
But
I am not one to tell how bodies ought to leave.
I
want not to take him
but
to stay
for
just a moment
by
his side
and
breathe his fur,
his
flame,
linger
in the last
of
musk,
against
the traffic,
shield
his body
from
the rush.
To
stay.
To
have that strength
instead
of looking back,
whisking
onward,
north,
away.
"The Motions" is wonderful
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