|
Philip Levine
Dog Poem
Fierce and stupid all dogs are
and some worse. I learned this
early by walking to school
unarmed and unprepared
for big city life, which they
had been bred to for centuries.
The chow who barred my way
snarling through his black lips
taught me I was tiny and helpless
and that if he grew more determined
I could neither talk nor fight,
and my school books, my starred exams,
my hand-woven woolen mittens, a gift
of my grandmother, would fall
to the puddled sidewalk and
at best my cold sack of lunch
might buy me a few moments
to prepare my soul before I slept.
I inched by him, smelling the breath
hot and sour as old clothes.
He did nothing but rave, rising
toward me on his hind legs
and choking against the collar
which miraculously held. Later,
years later, delivering mail
on bicycle in the new California,
I was set on by a four-footted moron
who tore at my trousers even
as I drummed small rocks off
his head. I dreamed that head
became soup, and the small eyes stared
out into the bright dining room
of the world’s great dog lovers,
and they ate and wept by turns
while I pedaled through the quiet streets
bringing bad news and good to
the dogless citizenry of Palo Alto.
The shepherd dog without sleep
who guards the gates to sleep wakens
each night as my tiny boat
begins to drift out on the waters
of silence. He bays and bays
until the lights come on, and I
sit up sweating and alarmed, alone
in the bed I came to call home.
Now I am weary of fighting and carry
at all times small hard wafers
of dried essence of cat to purchase
a safe way among the fanged masters
of the avenues. If I must come back
to this world let me do so as the lion
of legend, but striped like an alley cat.
Let me saunter back the exact way
I came turning each corner to face
the barking hosts of earth until they
scurry for cover or try pathetically
to climb the very trees that earlier
they peed upon and shamed. Let their pads
slide upon the glassy trunks,
weight them down with exercise books,
sacks of postcards, junk mail, ads,
dirty magazines, give them three kids
in the public schools, hemorrhoids,
a tiny fading hope to rise above
the power of unleashed, famished animals
and postmasters, give them two big feet
and shoes that don’t fit, and dull work
five days a week. Give them my life.
“Dog Poem” originally appeared in our Winter
1988 issue and was selected for inclusion in The Best American
Poetry 1989.
|
