|Apr/May 2006 Poetry|
The Street Dog Speaks
The click of ten nails on the macadam—
my cup o' ivories, my roulette, my
little gunboats of luck, my dice. Thrown
into the street, I wander by scent and scrim
of instinct. You see me on the road, by
the big road of many fast cars. Dicey,
my chances of making the crossing.
I'd need a veritable Ra (not Set!) to guide me
across without a scratch. But my life as roadside dog
has nothing to move you to act.
I'm scenery—today I move, but tomorrow
you will find me a very grave dog, poor
dogsbody's body on the side of the road
you mindless travel, and may too
die on someday if your luck runs as thin
as the layer of fat hanging
on my desperate, luminous bones.