Lord Lucky Merriweather

Long dead, my dog, Lucky, chased rocks

I threw, even down into the beaver pond.

He would pluck those balls clenched in his teeth

Off the muddy bottom and come up gagging.

He had a furious commitment to the game,

As if the Joy was worth drowning himself.

He carried sticks the size of small trees

Tripping over his front legs, with such serious

Devotion to the ridiculous.

He bounced on his hind legs through the tallest brush,

Full on shivering, reckless and lacking grace

As if the greatest prize was scattering birds,

The shock of beating wings flung skyward like angels.

I wondered if he even had one well-reasoned

Thought in his flop-eared head.

But some nights I dream of him still. I am, again,  

A child. As we’ are rising over moonlit fields together,

Flying, impossible limbic companions,

And my heart remembers how he belonged to me

And I to him, as if the best love could be delivered

With bad breath, on a coarse tongue.