by John Grey
About the dog.
Note its size.
Roughly your own.
And its energy.
Similar to yours.
And expended just
above floor level, where
you always play.
Notice how it
follows you,
is drawn to you,
licks your arm,
your cheeks,
to follow up
on the love it feels.
And the way
it eats and drinks
in such as hurry,
as if it can hardly wait
to finish its meal
and get back to you.
About the stuff
I do not tell you.
It will grow old.
You will grow up.
Its affections will
be constant
but its body will fail
while your attentions
are divided
and you’ll be ten times
as tall on your two legs
as it is on its four.
Its death may
cast a shadow
for a day or two
but, beyond that,
your life will barely stumble,
propelled forward
by all that’s
happening to you
not held back
by how it was
so long before.
To be honest,
what I say
and what I don’t say
are more for the
dog’s benefit
than your own.
But it has no way
of understanding.
It may bark
from time to time.
But at an intruder,
not the unfairness.
John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly, and Lost Pilots. Latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert, and Memory Outside The Head, are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa, and Shot Glass Journal.
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