ManicDDaily

How Strangely The Mind Works

She sometimes sounds, mornings,
like someone on quaaludes–
and my mind comes up with a neighbor once upstairs–
how they made him
lurch bang crash–
only Pearl’s falls–she’s my dog–
are more chthonic and never draw blood.

It’s her rump, see,
and the hind leg that won’t
support when the other scratches.

I feel sorry for her, sure,
but I keep thinking lately of Drew–that
was that guy’s name–years ago,
and how he would smear
his face along the stairwell pinballing up–

Pearl–she’d be 126, if human, while
he was young–and she’s a short dog, close
to the ground, so, although the falls are surely
not much fun–well, she’s not doing them for fun–
whereas this guy
had pretty good teeth, until, you know,
the self-hatred came along,
determined to take care of that smile,
one way or another.

It was the early 80‘s, NYC,
when AIDS hit harder
than any banging lurch,
and I wonder, now,
if there was something more
I could have done, remembering
the styled cherubic curl of his blond bangs,
and I always did say hi,
and he did too, sweetly,
and I never complained to the super
(though I know I kvetched to my boyfriend)
not even when he fell onto his stereo,
swerving the knob to deafening
while passing out–
not even when the firemen charged past
and water dripped down all day, actual jets
through my ceiling lightbulbs,
which was when, I think, he moved.

Sometimes I scratch Pearl myself,
holding her steady with my legs as I reach
around for the spot,
but it’s not so easy to get it right
when it’s someone else’s itch.

And I’m not making any comparisons here–
between the feelings of sorrow roused
for a much-loved very old dog
and a barely-known young man,
only thinking that life gives so many
opportunities for kindness that we just
don’t see, though when I think of that time now,
my eyes hurt, front and back,
flashing at their edges that rough-faced building’s door
in a neon night, you know how lights blur
in a photo, and I hope to God
that I said hi
with something more
than passing friendliness.

******************************************************

Here’s a draft poem/sketch for With Real Toads and dVerse Poets Pub Open Link NIghts. I’m not quite sure how I might shape it differently but here it is for now. (For those wondering about the dog –she is 18–doesn’t seem to be pain as a normal mode, but is, well, 18, and increasingly cannot support herself standing when she scratches. )