8 the inevitable poem about my dog


Rimbaud, Four Days Post Grooming


Is it a crime not to care?

Sometimes it is a crime not to care.

After the grooming, Rimbaud is snarling,

glazed-eyed, miserable. Wedges himself

into the carrying case he used to avoid.

Someone has hurt him? Of course someone

has hurt him. Then he had a good day, or two,

breezing the city streets, summer swinging,

but now he doesn’t raise his right ear

to the word “walk,” doesn’t glance up at

the rattling of his leash, doesn’t leap

to a treat. You know how he feels.

And you know how long it can go on.

Sometimes you wonder: what can we

do about this pain?

Sometimes you go to bed.

As for Rimbaud, give him another day.


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