...your guests donít move, donít bark,
wonít respond...



Dog whisperer


They find you wherever you search old sheds,
parks, the city streets Ė
the lost, the abandoned, the homeless.

Like a kind pied piper, a whistle for a flute
youíd pick them up
round a shiver of fur and the way home,

come, come, what a good boy!
Then in the dim kitchen
you put up a soak to scrub and soap

a bony thing, feel how it heaves
and drags under your touch.
For weeks you are savior and nurse,

your patience and skill
changing a bundle of fear
with soft words, the pledge

of a full water bowl, marrow bones,
Youíd stroke a knotty back
with knowing fingers,

mouthing again and again
into wet ears,
itís ok, ok, ok

wake in the night to a scratch and a howl
throw a blanket over all this anguish,
clutch loneliness in its trail.

Sometimes youíre stared at on end,
your guests donít move, donít bark,
wonít respond,

their will, leaking from them
like a dripping tap,
their eyes clouding over,

but then again,
most will follow you,
lap up your whispered words,

ears pricked, tail awag
tapping into your unique energy
full of boundless bounce.








Poetry by Scharlie Meeuws
Read 312 times
Written on 2008-11-18 at 18:28

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