DOG GONE
Newspaper plops through locked front door With news of great distress across the world. No bark greets the intrusion of war and disaster. First World problems rear their pretty heads; Come here, go there, buy this, buy that, consume and sue. Have something for nothing, it’s your due. But here, right here, the world is colder by degrees. No global heat in Grimescar Valley; the people stay indoors, Their blood unwarmed by walking marathons. Food once gusto gobbled, rots, bagged and binned. Black cat emboldened sits composed in a bed Of hardy perennials, studying the bird table. Rats encroach. Mud dries hard on boots, the body stiffens. The museum house lies cold, quiet and clean The roaring turbo vacuum stowed silent in the dark. It was my companion who made the introductions To the horses, the magpies, the jays, the acorns, Our daily forensic examination of Blake’s Promised Land. But now no ear is cocked to listen to my poem, No dark brown ...