Two hours after touring his perimeter
this foggy morning, dog could see
where his sloggy footsteps had settled
in the dew. He had to assume horizon
and the lake’s still sound. So heavy
in the feet, that’s dog feeling
sorry for himself. He’d woken up
and nobody cared, no geese
showed up. Dog wrote down
what he had to and went inside.
It took three teas and a bowl
of Bran Flakes to pick dog up
and pop him into the bath,
let him engineer passage
of hot and cold. If it doesn’t matter,
why do it? Dog’s long
for do, said dog, hoisting himself,
shaking the tub from his right leg.
And this is it.
By now he’s dry and playing
goose gallery. They keep their fabulous
eyes ready, rest and preen, sip water.
He’d cast away an apple peel
and goose number ninety-three ate it.