Sonnet #31

Someday I hope to be the man my dog
Believes that I am. The way she looks
At me is what a pilgrim sees in fog
Around a priestly vestment. I took
her from a place where she had friends
She never minded, though; we are blood tribe
A dog will die for a man, a dog will stand
Upon his grave and wait for him to rise

The cat, instead, reminds us we are not
The person that our dog will always see
The cat meows incessantly to spot
The peasant in a giant’s skin and feet.

I hope to be the man my dog believes
I also think the cat is true to me.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s