That’s who I am, pampered, well fed,
trampling slack-leashed into the beds,
blooming or not, depositing my turds
and sprinkling the tulip stalks
whose buds are like the bud I lick.
And though I look like a dust mop,
a four-legged moustache, trim my bangs,
and as fierce as an Assyrian sight hound,
I’ll find my way back to Peritas or La Vega Real,
snout wet with the gore of human bowel.
But for now a squeaky, annoying yap
warns as well as a mastiff’s bark.
Truth is, I’m weightless in a lap
and, on a cold day, I like a cardigan,
at night, a stiff brush, all of which
sharpens the loneliness I feel.
So that’s who I am
and now if you don’t mind, tell me,
whose dog are you.
Copyright © Michael Collier
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.