ahkil
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« on: October 13, 2007, 03:19:11 AM » |
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My daughter tells me her white shepherd Swallows, with food, one pill each morning To settle its nerves through another New York City day. Someone, she says, Is always outside, drunk or angry Or loud to themselves on the sidewalk. While I’m gone, there’s traffic, repairmen, The tenants who shut and open doors. She named that dog for the white shepherd In a novel, romantic, perhaps, Or sentimental, but she tells me, This summer, the light comes so early, Her lover rises with the dog’s moans And the tongue that insists on comfort. That after walks failed, after music From bluegrass to jazz to the sadness Of Billie Holliday changed nothing, He played the voice of Jack Kerouac Reading from The Subterraneans And On the Road, the long sentences Sending her dog back to the light sleep Of listening, the man she’ll marry Using the oldest home remedy For anxiety. “Listen, Clem,†he says, “good boy,†The benevolent words of the dead beginning.
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