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.


Stay in touch • info AT • PO Box 181 • Brookfield IL 60513 • 312 315 4273