Lynne Potts

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