Barely concealing emotion and tentative as
if mutely accusing me of complicity she
asked if I had seen her little dog. We’ve
known each other seven years; while she
displays at times an artifice beyond her age
I knew that this was tender-raw and real.
She explained unenthusiastically of the six
loose at home it was a tan and white Jack
Russel male, cheeky nature but disposed to
truculence. I agreed I had; a week ago he’d
boldly entered the back yard, indecorously
peed on flowers then ran away.
Missing since morning, looked everywhere
she said. The pout and rising lilt suggested
sentiment suppressed by doubt concerning
my veracity. If I did I’d let her know, I said
and was sincere – unless he went near
chooks who had survived the last calamity.
Her innocence and pluck combined to make
me sad. This dog was raised in anarchy, a
barefaced terrorist never trained, properly
leashed, or ever obeyed a simple command.
If there was to be a grim prognosis on its
end, why then for it sure it would be bad.
I’d prefer she did not see her dog again or
know its fate. Guiltless of the act I share a
view protecting her which stays my sense
of righteousness; she’s blameless in her
narrow view by dearth of parenting – a lack
which skews an anxious sense of worth.
© 8 February 2010, I. D. Carswell
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem