Baskadia

DOG AT A FUNERAL

I feel the wailing dirge around me—a sad soprano of loss

Accompany a heartless coffin to the grave.

Here lies my master, a broken will of wretchedness

Soon to kiss the earth that shades his bones.

He was a good man (dogs too don’t speak ill of the dead)

But for his weal’s sake, death was too good for him.

Amidst these human eyes that speak gaudy bewilderment and pity,

I see a veil dressed in the leering laughter of hypocrisy.

As soon, though, as the unhallowed earth beds him—

That even a puppy knows too well—the homely wind

Shall blow dark prodigal clouds of pretense away;

The hour suddenly will shed its fixed frown

To drumming cackles of debauchery.

I should rather feed my mind the image of bones abundant.

This flirting aroma could lead a fortunate dog to filch.

As the hours grow an oblong gloomy mien,

I meander between wearied legs holding my jaw tight

Lest I betray the hour’s etiquette.

And once or twice I dare lock gazes at faces I conjecture

Have no naked heart for solemnity: cat-eyed, shrewish,

Wishing me drowned or bundled to the dog pound’s;

This starveling dog is out to gnaw the day’s ration, they hissed.

But I’ve got to be wary; many here have dispensed

Some good goose tears in the bargain, and I, nothing.

For a dog to lose a lifeline means a fortune

Of unsavory kicks and a faithful promise of hunger.

Time has come—the future profiled against

The rage of a beastly season—to higgle a wall of provision

Before another crooked smile wins

The bet on death’s hideous grimace.

© Ike Aro