Rasma Says

Musings, deliberations, flashes of unaccounted for brilliance…

Seventh Summer

Because he is dying
I tell him to stay, slow down
stop and smell along the way
the dog-piss greetings of his neighbors, 
dilly daly, tarry all he wants to on the slope
as I walk faster down the trail 
practicing going for a walk alone
unleashed, at my own pace 
dog-less and lonesome. 

Because he is dying 
he doesn’t obey, but pads along, 
trotting, panting, taxing his heart 
that will not lose sight of me. 

Ahead on the path near a twisted birch,
lying like a sick yolk between the roots,
is an orange – he mustn’t eat that I think
it would be a rotten orange, cast off there
so strangely, a poison orange, maybe set 
out here by some sicko who wants 
random dogs to die. 

I get there first, it is not an orange
but an orange ball with yellow stars,
a dog’s ball, not an orange at all, a ball, 
a plaything for a puppy, a puppy’s ball. 
See here I say when he catches up. 
You want this? He sniffs. Doesn’t take it 
in his mouth. I don’t pick it up and toss it 
to him, this small sun covered in stars. 
It is a plaything. We walk on. 

On the way down again – surprise! 
snagged on bushes and trees 
like clouds of snow – the dog wool
I brushed out of him on the way up. 

Løverikets Thunder in the Sky


This entry was posted on 01/07/2012 by in Uncategorized and tagged , , .
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