Dog Days
The dog days are gone now,
a sad, sagging pooch
who wobbled one day
to his summer feet,
lifted his nose to the wind,
and hobbled off,
tongue wagging swelter,
after sniffing something
that smelled to him
like autumn.
Canada sends her regards;
a crystal cool answer
to prayers prayed by those
in the stuffy attic apartment
across the street.
Hello Canada,
the dog days were dry this year.
Me and the ancient maple out back
have been waiting.
July's blaze
parched her emerald span,
broad leaves blistered
by insane August breath,
on the side where the sun
burned like a sky ember
each afternoon.
The sweet grass
beneath her cover though,
and the picnic table too,
are still safe.
Well done.
8.21.12