WHISTLING SHADE |
I had nerves all my life, only one
pup, she was pretty,
but I liked the couple better.
No sitting on top of the sofa,
but I did when they left.
Every car that passed,
I looked, hoping.
I had a red leather leash;
she walked me on
Grand Avenue where people stopped
to admire my spots.
She said I was the color of winter.
I liked that, but she wasn't
patient. Even if I was afraid
of other dogs, we were kin.
I wanted to smell—
she wanted exercise.
He took me to the country
where I could chase wild turkeys,
but I heard him say I was racist
because I barked at black people.
I meant no harm and would have
let them pet me
if I saw them more often.
The last years she put a sheet
over the sofa and I watched for them
on 100 % cotton.
I died at home.
A woman came and held me
with such tenderness
that I never saw the needle.
They buried me in the backyard
where fern and hosta thrive.