Dog Gone August
Dog gone home with his sad little bone
in a bag clouded over as hot August
comes on—spell after spell
of sedentary habits or poor pickings
I couldn’t say which, so typical
of inexplicable August.
Sent the sad little dog a bagged bone,
pathetic effort to stave August’s stifle
no matter where you settle: hammock,
hillock, wood cart dragged across a vacant
lot where you lift a sad little cloud
hanging from a hook in the pit
of your heart.
Went the sad little boney dog home
where August sat on a bedraggled sofa
heat misrepresented as contentment,
habit of covering up taking over
long periods of pitiful heat hung
on a hook, no one but you hearing
a muffled bark.
Little dog gone home with a brown
bag and bone to the sofa, rug
slid to a side table empty dish
except for some pathetic kibbles,
collectibles on shelves collecting dust
inconsolable cloud attached to your heart
this intolerably hot August.
Bony dog home on the sofa nothing
stirring in the heated rattle of a cart
on gravel, only sound, our habits
gathered like little dust bunnies
when August comes, gray clouds,
nothing but empties everywhere so we
let down and settle, Love, for sad.
First published in Cimarron Review