Sunday, April 23, 2017

Mutt Runs Along the Fence Yapping


William Johnson

Dog days doggone dog-tired dogwork of summer,
mowing the grass we're all coming to

the dog tags of you, me, I, we, stashed in a box,
doghouse throwaways. Even the namesake

tree whose blossoms some call Jesus-flowers
for the rust-grooved tips of the petals

as if nails now removed had indented
the shape of a cross, betrays my mood

how all those springs ago
seeing our tree nailed with bloody after bloody

crucifix I said this beauty's no foo-foo
and sure enough my dog-weary dearie

mowing today, the spring long gone,
I brush a limb on whose tired leaves mites amble

the edible thoroughfares and as if to confirm it,
our neighbor's mutt runs along the fence yapping

dogwood dogwood dogwood as the mower chugs on,
our train leaving for the city beneath the grass.