The Droll Impossible
Some night when snow is way up
against the door, they'll remember
your madcap motion. You believe so.
Panic-wishes, like for six more
months of wild life, are sawed down
as easily as rotted barn wood boards.
You see the grave hand-dug for you,
the bottle of Kessler's whiskey they will pour
over your cancer-broken Wolfhound carcass.
Life, friends, is ethereal...a plain calico
dream, a dream-sunset in distant foothills.
In last weeks, your porous leg bones creak.
Only by chance, by a random cup of stardust,
will you see your beloved humans again,
perhaps in a cosmic mirror of rosy-pale marble.
You are doped-up, slant-down on hound bed.
You are belly-full of steak, and know you have
given heart enough so that they may weep honestly.