Moving The Pig


Sometimes I sit
In the backyard
Reading. I am
Reading a poem
Today, a book
Inspired by poems.
A poet died today.
I saw the story
On the news. Earlier
I transplanted four
Plants, herbs and
Moved the pig
Watering can. Darn
One of the plants is
Looking tired.
I hope it lives.
My cat is
Inside sleeping. My dog
Is next to me chewing
On the remains
Of a lamp chop.
I opened the garden gate
This morning before
I photographed it. My dog
Ran in and out
Of the garden three times and
Each time carrying something
In his mouth. A bandit
With a cherry tomato
A plastic marker
A blue globe thistle.
Yesterday it was
An Italian Red Roaster.
He snatched it off
The picnic table, playing
With it like he might
With a dead bird.
This is why
I moved the birdfeer
To the front yard.
To keep the birds and squirrels
Out of the backyard.
How many birds do I care
For him to eat. I dreamed
I was going to grill a squirrel
And someone asked me “Did you
Gut it?” And I said “Yikes. No way.”
We go for walks
Sit. Stay. Come. Sit.
Down. I say. We
Look for Joyce on our walks.
The old lady in the brick house
Next to senior housing.
She gives my dog treats and
He looks for her. He looks
Right at her house. And
Sometimes she comes out
And she says “Once
This was all pasture. And
There was a pond. And
My children ran through
The pasture and swam
In the pond. We love
Your dog. We love Freddy.”

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