My Little Dog Barks

No words convey my little dog’s value,

As he lies on the sofa, asleep, peace—

Fully dreaming with neck curved down, resting

His head on his fine short legs, soft black fur,

Streaked now with grey, daring the touch,

A loving touch amidst evening shadows.

Like new born child, Simon has soaked himself,

His wrap leaking, soaking his under-pad;

He barks, voice loud, letting me know something

Is missing: supper? self—real presence? soaked!

My ruined hands, his ruined back, wounded,

Both, perhaps, having lived too long, past love—

Obstacles now, burdens, crosses others

Must bear, grumbling, like Israel in the desert.

[Almost a sonnet; halfway there, maybe, maybe not. Almost iambic pentameter with an alexandrine worked in at the end. Ah well. It’s the thought that counts, maybe, maybe not.]

SIMON