The Black Dog
Technically, he was Gramp’s
Dog, but he was all of ours’,
aunts’, uncles’, cousins’—
an inheritance of sorts.
We called him Blackie.
Not very original, granted.
But it seemed right, since
Black was both his color
And his disposition.
There was clearly some
Lab in his lineage. His
Broad barrel chest,
Sturdy, low center
Of gravity. We could never
Know how he would appear
Each morning when, or if,
He would appear at all.
Too often bloodied, an ear
Ripped in the starry night
Or snout perforated
With a quick snap and nip
By some son of a bitch
Barking at the full moon.
All day he would lie about,
Brooding, a soft growl,
Doggedly rehearsing a dream
Of his next foray into the night.
___
Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona and Arizona. His collection, Planet Mort, is now available from FootHills Publishing. His poems have appeared in many magazines, most recently in The Rye Whiskey Review, ONE ART, Amethyst Review, Hobo Camp Review, and Monterey Poetry Review. He was formerly the dean at the Montana State University library.
THE BIG WINDOWS REVIEW 