A Dog's Life

A stay of execution: one last day,

your day, old Everydog, then, as they say,

or as we say (a new trick to avoid

finalities implicit in destroyed),

you have to be put down, or put to sleep—

the very dog who, once, would fight to keep

from putting down, despite our shouts, a shoe

until he gnawed it to the sole, and who

would sit up, through our sleepless nights, to bark

away some menace looming in the dark.

 

Can you pick up the sense of all this talk?

Or do you still just listen for a walk,

or else, the ultimate reward, a car?—

My God, tomorrow's ride . . . Well, here we are,

right now. You stare at me and wag your tail.

I stare back, dog-like, big and dumb. Words fail.

No more commands, ignore my monologue,

go wander off. Good dog. You're a good dog.

And you could never master, anyway,

the execution, as it were, of Stay.

 

Daniel Groves, Poetry May 2003

Pigeon and Hawk

A new grad student far away from home,

I took every step on trembling ground.

I knew no one. Who were my friends?

The other black student in the program

ducked and rushed away when our eyes met.

Seminar rooms were full of hungry dogs

snapping up scraps of nodding approval.

At the end of a campus reception

I accepted the offer of a ride

from campus to my downtown room-with-bath.

 

October. Evenings were getting cool.

The walk over the bridge downtown

felt dangerously long when it was dark.

Did the young man who offered me a ride

tell me his name? What was it about him

that made me say Yes thanks, like a damn fool?

When we were in his car and he said oops,

he had forgotten something at his place

he had to pick up, and asked if I’d mind

if we stopped there, why did I say O.K.?

 

Did we talk during the drive? Was the radio on?

Did I just watch the businesses,

in thinning traffic, become a suburb

where his apartment complex was in a woods

already splendid in autumn colors

so beautiful they took my words away?

When he pulled up and said I should come in,

it would only take a minute, why did I go

upstairs with him, wait as the key unlocked

his apartment, and go inside?

 

The building was silent. A big window

in the living room looked at parking lots

with a few parked cars, and the glowing trees.

He said I’ll be right back, and disappeared

into the bedroom. I turned to the view,

thinking of nothing, my mind a blank page

that grew emptier as the minutes passed.

What was he doing during those minutes,

as I stood dreaming like a fat pigeon

in the keen purview of a circling hawk?

 

What could he have needed to go home for,

that was so important he had to go

there first, before he drove me home? Was he

wrestling with opportunity?

            Human horrors

are not inevitable. Some people stop

themselves, before they cross moral divides.

A drinking buddy might say Cool it, bro.

A cop might take his knee off a black man’s throat.

A young man might come out and say O.K.,

let’s go, and drive you home. What was his name?

 

Marilyn Nelson, slowdownshow.org October 8, 2020

Ice Cream Stop

The circus train made an ice cream stop
At the fifty-two-flavor ice cream stand.
The animals all got off the train
And walked right up to the ice cream man.
“I’ll take Vanilla,” yelled the gorilla.
“I’ll take Chocolate,” shouted the ocelot.
   “I’ll take the Strawberry,” chirped the canary.
      “Rocky Road,” croaked the toad.
         “Lemon and Lime,” growled the lion.
      Said the ice cream man, “‘Til I see a dime.
   You’ll get no ice cream of mine.”
Then the animals snarled and screeched and growled
And whinnied and whimpered and hooted and howled
And gobbled up the whole ice cream stand,
All fifty-two flavors
(Fifty-three with Ice Cream Man).

 

Shel Silverstein, Falling Up (Harper Collins Publishers, 1996)

Communion at the BP

It was a little thing, really,
this offer to fill my tire.
I was unscrewing the valve cap
and heard a voice behind me.
‘Here, I’ll get that for you”

“Oh that’s ok, I’ve got it,” is what I
normally say to such overtures,
this knee-jerk reaction to refuse.
I am the one who offers to help,
I am the one who serves.

Perhaps it was the eager spirit
in his face or his brown eyes
full of hopeful connection that
caused me to say okay.

I felt the vibration of
his unspoken benediction:
I can’t do much for you,
fellow weary traveler,
but I can do this. Lay
your burden down and
I will carry it for a bit.

And I couldn’t help but wonder
how many times I have denied
someone the blessing of serving
because I have been too stubborn
to accept their gift.

As I was standing there in
the sun drenched gas station
parking lot, the hiss and tick of
the air pump sounded very much
like a psalm. I watched his hands
filling more than just my tire with air,
while goodness and grace
swirled around us.

 

Paula Gordon Lepp, janicefalls.wordpress.com August 31, 2022

Unveiled

In the cemetery
a mile away
from where we used to live,
my aunts and mother
my father and uncles lie
in two long rows,
almost the way
they used to sit around
the long planked table
at family dinners.
And walking beside
the graves today, down
one straight path
and up the next,
I don't feel sad, exactly,
just left out a bit,
as if they kept
from me the kind
of grown-up secret
they used to share
back then, something
I'm not quite ready yet
to learn.

 

Linda Pastan, Carnival Evening, Collected Poems 1968-1998 (W. W. Norton and Company, 2009)

The First Annual AHS Wipeout 5K Run

No question about it; this was a great day 

for the American Hemorrhoids Society,

and for me. The race attracted hundreds

of socially conscious joggers and runners

 

from all over the area—each glad to fund-raise

for such a worthy cause and maybe achieve

at the same time a personal record on the fast, 

straight, out-and-back course through town.

We showed up early and gathered in the park

near the starting line outside Sundown Vale

Assisted Living and exchanged the usual

self-congratulatory tales of recent performances,

 

and, of course, the predictable litany

of ailments: plantar fasciitis, sore knees,

the lower back issue, tendonitis, shin splints,

IBS—and yes, painful hemorrhoidal tissue.

 

According to these conversations, no one had trained

sufficiently, thereby providing a preemptive excuse

in case of a poor showing in the race, while some

of the faster kids and other reliable local standouts

 

did impressive wind sprints to loosen up and show off.

The event’s sponsor, Preparation H, had a big truck

on site, decorated with the product’s familiar logo,

and peppy young company reps wearing blue

 

and yellow T-shirts also bearing the logo were 

giving away free samples. Some of us chose 

to try them out right away, availing ourselves 

of the porta potties arrayed along the sidewalk.

 

Then a tiny, clearly nervous girl from St. Jude’s Pre-K

gamely labored through a quavering, slightly off-key 

but well-received interpretation of the national anthem, 

as we fidgeted patriotically and adjusted our watches.

 

Finally the starting gun was fired and we got moving,

shuffling at first because of crowd congestion, but soon

picked up speed as the pack thinned out. The weather

that morning was cool and sunny, matching my mood.

 

I was flying, wings on my feet, the scenery a blur.

Having just celebrated my 100th birthday, I was sure

I’d finish well before lunch, first in my new age group,

earning another of those coveted little plastic trophies.

 

George J. Searles, Rattle #76 Summer 2022

Police Notes

Female reported running up Main Street yelling "No, no,
no!"
She was described as wearing dark clothing and loud
shoes.

Subject was reported standing in the roadway with a sign
saying
"lawyers suck and police are outlaws."

Woman called to report a man lurking on her patio.
Officers investigated and found a runaway goat.

Clerk in convenience store reported male customer was
looking up someone's skirt. Subject was tracked to the
university.

911 report — woman says her wallet was stolen from her
kitchen.
Before officers could investigate, she called back and said
that it was her son, 45.

Elderly woman called to report a moose, people carrying
torches, and strange music on her property. Officers
searched and found nothing.

911 dispatcher got a call saying there was a "huge party"
in the woods off County Road 3. Officers find empty
bottles and discarded clothes. Residents of Elm Street
report seeing four naked people.

Paris Road resident reports peeping Tom. Later told
police it was "one of my boyfriends."

 

Alice N. Persons, Don’t Be a Stranger (Sheltering Pines Press, 2007)