Poem 36

I try to avoid writing cutesy poems, but this one comes as a special request. When I was in late elementary school, one of my friends had a miniature dachshund named Hotdog. The name could have been more original, but the dog was one of the most endearing creatures I've ever encountered. She acted like you were doing her a tremendous favor just by showing up to hang out with your friend. I remembered this dog fondly on Saturday, how warm she was, and my girlfriend suggested I write a poem about it. This one is not about my friend or me. I made it up.

As I wrote this I realized that with the demise of the VCR many of us will lack a glowing green clock in our living rooms. It was sort of a lame joke that no one knew how to set theirs, but if a person took some time, it wasn't such a chore to do. Perhaps DVD/VCR combos still have this feature, but for how long?

Wiener Dog

A key turning the deadbolt
and two wet steps later
he crouches down on hardwood
with the door hanging
open a crack.
The boy looks
like he is gathering
a flock of sparrows.
He cradles 11 pounds
of twittering body, tongue,
ears, tail: a dachshund
who has gathered winter
light into her own
bloom of heat on the carpet
by the bay window
all afternoon.

She perched her front paws
on the sill when the junior high bus
stopped up the street
and aimed her arrow body.
To shoot her head
into the boy’s open coat
like he’s stealing clay
that can’t hold its shape.
He laughs from the tickling nose
and glances to the VCR’s clock;
it will be 24 minutes
before he will share this warm
skittering with his brother.
Seventh grade,
even with locker rooms
of trouble,
means extra afternoon
with the snow melting off
boughs outside and the sound
of two sets of lungs.