When out of work and fierce with self-pity
I’d walk until the fierceness left my feet
and I broke down. Then I’d start home,
where once I walked up to find my wife
pitching a stick across the parking lot
while an ugly dog sat and looked at her.
She’d found him near the office where she typed,
and fed him half her sandwich. He hung around
until she’d given in and brought him home.
But he loved me so much that when I went
to play with him, he’d roll onto his back
and piss until it splattered on his chest.
I’d sit outside all afternoon and talk
to him, to the hard knowledge in his face
that she’d leave me when I was well enough
to be left. I talked too much. She’d tell her friends,
He’s out of work. He thinks he is that dog.
And she was right, I did. But we were poor,
living on frozen chicken pies and tea-
I knew I’d have to take him to the pound.
As I signed him away with my right hand
and wiped my left—which he would not stop licking
against the unwashed leg of my blue jeans
I felt I was signing myself away.
An illusion, sure, but one that lasted months.
I thought of this today when I crossed the bridge
and the river smelled like a wet, unwanted dog.
Sentimental Dangers
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