The Old Dog

Each day he kept up his ritual,
sauntering down to the
front path, to the grassy
edge, to the gate near the
park. And there he waited
like some un-shapeable purpose.

And each day, people came
down the street, turned at the
corner with the old dog, like
bodies orbiting a black sun,
round and round,

a fat woman pushing a corpulent
kids hurtling past on bikes,
red pock-faced drunk,
lurching and rolling,
beer case clanking under arm.

Each person a returning
star, or a sheltering sun,
or a comet.
Each a constellation that
moves around its dog center.
High above, a hawk would circle.

And at the end of the day when he
rose, and from that grassy
edge sauntered up the
front path, the sun knew to
set, the people knew to return
home, the trees knew to grow
dark and reticent.

Copyright Ricky Barrow 2013


One thought on “The Old Dog

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