He says,
“My frisky wet wood
always serves up
fancy moves
and I love calling you
to my beam
for daily Olympics.”
He says,
“I know you well.
Every day you come.
You choose me over others
even though
slimes happen.
I don’t mean
to slide your feet
or snap your cage
or snag your lung.
I rejoice in your
balances and cool
ways to dance me
up and down.
My surfaces tremble
when you sideways
topple into muskegs
and boggy mixtures.
Wear heels with spikes.
I don’t mind
how you hold me
tight.
Once I watched your tall
Rhodesian Ridgeback
walk you down muddy
and post-tumble,
on half a lung
in the dark
of late November.
I saw that you had
no desire to use
your phone to call
a carry-out service.
You knew the big dog
would help you descend
then you’d drive to the ER.
Have the ribs checked.
Make an incision.
Insert a vacuum tube.
Re-inflate the lung.
See you soon
for more
good steps.
Love, Mr. Dan Moller.”
Lin Davis writes: Hiking Juneau trails daily with a dog or two brings up poems and access to new ways that everything is alive.
