Walking the Dog
Two universes mosey down the
Connected by love and a leash and nothing else.
Mostly I look at lamplight through the
While he mooches along with tail up and snout down,
Getting a secret knowledge through the
Almost entirely hidden from my sight.
We stand while he's enraptured by a
Till I can't stand our standing any
And haul him off; for our
Is patience balancing to this side
And that side drag; a pair of
Contented not to think each other's thoughts.
What else we have in common's what he taught,
Our interest in shit.
We know its every
From steaming fresh through stink to nature's
Of sluicing it downstreet dissolved in
Or drying it to dust that blows away.
We move along the street inspecting shit.
His sense of it is keener far than mine,
And only when he finds the place
He signifies by sniffing
And circles thrice about, and squats, and shits,
Whereon we both with dignity walk
And just to show who's master I write the poem.
Howard Nemerov was born on February 29th, 1920 in New York.
He died of cancer at his home in University City,
Missouri on July 5th 1991.
Howard Nemerov
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