Wednesday, July 1, 2020

The Goose

    I was five and my
    Recollections are faulty,
    So they’ve said.  Mother
    And the rest.  My father
    Told me years later,
    He was a Dachshund,
    Dusty, not the goose

    Whom I won at the fair
    Throwing a hoop over her
    Head, leading her off
    To my parents surprise,
    My prize, having been
    Told whatever I won would
    Be mine in perpetuity.

    It was the Depression
    Then; so they said,
    Or something similar, and
    Geese were for eating,
    They told me after dinner
    And after I rushed out
    Back to find her gone.

    Later I was given Dusty
    Whom I loved in consolation
    For the goose, a perfect
    Dog loved by almost everyone
    There being no fences
    People knowing him
    By different names.

    When I was ten he was
    Run over by a car and
    My parents divorced. Ten
    It seemed was old enough
    For those sorts of things.
    We lived with Hill Billies
    And took the bus to school.

    We then lived with Bonnie
    Hilligas and I had a collie
    Until he barked too much
    And was taken to the pound
    While I was at school.
    She was a harsh woman
    With no dogs of her own.

    I can still remember
    Dusty’s death, his body
    Brought home and buried
    In the back.  My parents
    Divorce though was childish
    In its own way.  Lipstick
    On a collar was all I knew.

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