Blind Dog Blue
It is colder than it should be
at 3:30 a.m. on a Spring morning,
huddled in my tired Toyota
on the edge of your wide driveway,
under one of your favorite trees
bathed blue in the moonlight;
too sleepy to even stare at the stars
that stare at me, like your old blind dog
lying in the rockery
thumping its thick tail,
and watching me
through white opaque corneas,
seeing my every thought,
as I close my eyes listening
to the engine's drone,
the heater's hiss,
and the nightbirds hunting and dying
in the neo-darkness,
my mind is bristling with beasts and cherubs
doing battle with sharp dandelion wisps
that fall quietly in a large white room,
like ghostly flaxen feathers
settling on our damp shoulders.
For a moment drenched in stardust
we appear as the stag and doe in a Disney dream,
leaping over logs, hardly touching,
embracing the stringed arias
our sleek parallactic bodies pass through.
The oriental machine is warm now,
the windshield is clear,
I descend back down beneath
the window where you lie listening
to the rattle of my muffler
as I lurch across the thick gray gravel,
waving good-bye to your silent spotted dog,
who is not sure whether I am
exiting or entering
his world.
Glenn Buttkus
April 2011
Posted over on Applehouse Poetry
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