Bob Hicok Poems
|22.||For Three Whose Reflex was Yes||1/23/2012|
|23.||Feeling The Draft||1/23/2012|
|26.||Dropping The Euphemism||1/23/2012|
|27.||Calling Him Back from Layoff||1/23/2012|
|28.||By Their Works||1/1/2004|
|29.||Another Awkward Stage Of Convalescence||1/13/2003|
|30.||An Old Story||1/23/2012|
|31.||After Working Sixty Hours Again for What Reason||1/23/2012|
|32.||A Shopkeeper’s Story||1/23/2012|
|33.||A Private Public Space||1/23/2012|
She does this thing. Our seventeen-
year-old dog. Our mostly deaf dog.
Our mostly dead dog, statistically
speaking. When I crouch.
When I put my mouth to her ear
and shout her name. She walks away.
Walks toward the nothing of speech.
She even trots down the drive, ears up,
as if my voice is coming home.