The Dog

You could try to write on that
Dog. It’s been done. I’ve seen it.

Not the best poem, not the worst.
That dog starts out in a poem,

A great poem with a “Sing, Muse!”
On the man so good at lies

He has a god with grey eyes
On hand to help him. His dog

Gets to see him come home. Dies.
No one wants to be that dog,

And yet—for a lot of us,
The one scene some poor lost child

Will tell of us will be that
One in which our soul flew off

As if we had such a soul.
That dog did. Hung in there. Died

When old Dad came home at last.
Dog that earned verse. Could be worse.