Dog In Moonlight Poem by Caroline Misner

I plan on giving this up very soon;
the labour is just too much for me.
I plan a simple departure—
no fanfare, no tears, no departing
consolation prize for having
endured it for this long.

I’m almost finished with the yard work;
last year’s sneakers sink into the spongy
loam, the grass is the same
dull grey as cadavers; nothing yet
has sprouted save for the curled leaves
of the crocus, reluctant to bloom.

My dog sits like a sphinx by the curb,
the bright brown orb of her eye
revolves and digests the furore
of the neighbourhood: each big green
garbage bag, set out to for the dawn
retrievers, each spinning bicycle tire,

each twisting jump rope the little girls
leap round and through, chanting
like monks, their songs echoing down
these suburban streets embalmed
in their early evening rituals. My dog
has no voice to tell me lies.

The moon struggles its path across the sky,
cobalt blue but ruddy at the horizon.
The moon’s scant light illuminates little,
but overwhelms the ashen stars,
and that is why the lampposts blink
like eyes and open for the night.