A Poet Looks To His Dog For Help
He looks to me too often.
As he once did to Bly,
Wright, Berryman and dozens
of others.
His mistake tonight?
His fixation on a simile
that stands out like a rear bumper
in a tail end collision.
Yet he’s in love with it.
Change it! Move on! I bark
but it’s like instructing
a man under anesthesia.
He’s stubborn, like a woman
with aching arches,
refusing to give up
her love of stilettos.
Or like Shaq who kept throwing up
bricks from the foul line.
Bend your legs more, Shaq!
Arch your back! I used to bark
at the TV. Did he listen?
He was as much in love with failure
as Shakespeare here…
Finally our next Poet Laureate
looks to me for help.
“What’s wrong with this damn poem?”
He throws his hands up!
“Maybe
I should have you look at it
tomorrow?” he pleads.
Yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow.
Is there a better word in the dictionary?
I close my eyes hoping
he’ll think I’ve left the room.
I pray tomorrow he’ll take up
something besides poetry.
Pole vaulting maybe, something
that I can’t help him
with.
A Poet Looks To His Dog For Help
Re: A Poet Looks To His Dog For Help
Too funny, Bob, like it all.