I guess it's too late to get a dog

After Bernadette Mayer

I guess it's too late to get a dog.
I haven't been trained 
for the smoky warmth 
of an animal. 
I have never known how 
to inhale that damp, doggy smell,
how to keep my balance
at the friend's door 
when the dog pounces, 
sniffs me, scrambles with his paws 
like I'm the face of a cliff.
I don't know what to do
with all that love.

I guess it's too late to get a dog.
But I was born in The Year of the Dog.
There must be a little bit of dog in me.
I could roll in the grass, 
run round bushes and trees,
rumble with the sky, 
growl low, deep growls.
Then, maybe, I would understand dog 
and dog would understand me.
I'd slap my thighs,
call in a loud, dog-owner voice,
and he'd come running fast.
He'd charge me with his love.

I guess it's too late to get a dog.
But if I did get a dog,
I would gaze into those eyes –
those soggy, loving eyes –
that know me, look for me,
wait for me to come home.
I'd say, 'I've come home, boy,
I'm home.'
If I got a dog,
he would nose his big nose
under the warm duvet, 
sniff my feet, snuffle and huff. 
The silence would not be complete 
without his breath.

I guess it's too late to get a dog.

I haven't been trained

for all that love.   
But still I light the fire, 
we would sit beside –
him and me –
prepare to breathe 
that sweet wood scent,
that damp, doggy smell
and, with it, the rain and the earth.

From yesterday's NaPoWriMo prompt, this poem was inspired by Bernadette Mayer's 'Essay'. Mayer's poem begins, 'I guess it's too late to live on the farm...'

Sky, Cloud, You...

I sit on a bench

in the lamp-post park

and make notes 

on the world.

Yellow jacket skaters

baby pram pushers

fence talkers 

and coffee cup whistlers

scoot along the path.

I write it all down:

how the hawthorns 

have almost fallen over,

how the dogs

fly into the open arms

of clouds,

and then I see

the long hair tied back

the gentle face of a lion

the eyes like water.

The women are calling:

Come on! This way! Come on!

But we sit on the bench

you and I 

and talk 

ten years worth of tales.

Old friend,

you stroll like a miracle

out of the shoe lacers 

and the rucksack joggers

out of this green painting

and into the day.

Morning

Slowly it begins:

the sun wafts into the garden,

drips green onto the moss,

trails gold along the stone.

The bush funnels up the shade

where it will wait out the day.

Before long, the terrace shines white,

blinds the opening of windows.

The shingles crumple and shift

in the unfamiliar heat.

Umbrella tops drip with bamboo.

Pipes rumble and run along the walls,

the taps accelerate,

the drains burble

with rust-berries and fallen leaves.

Twigs twist out of charcoal bags

and the fences crowd with doves.

Our ladder climbs up! up!

into the hangout of the crows.

But those old birds don’t care;

they are dining on last night’s dreams.

Aerials rake the clouds,

harvest the songs and signals

out of the bluebell sky - 

and the wheel of the morning 

flies open.