the dog ate some flesh
off my arm then killed the bear
okay i agree

I wasn't going to buy another dog because it hurts too much when they die.
But I decided to buy another dog and she is my Sweetie Pie.
When it comes to the heart, losing a pet sure will break it.
When it came to my former dog's death, it was hard to take it.
But several weeks later, I ended up being in luck.
I bought another dog for only two hundred bucks.
Hazel looks similar to my old dog and I sure am a lucky guy.
My former dog was my Baby Doll and Hazel is my Sweetie Pie.

It has been months
Since I have

Pet a brown dog
On the floor
Of a living room
That breathed
To the rush
Of chasing.

Felt its tongue
On my cheek -
Sticky with slobber.
Saw it lap at my cup
Of water.
Found it heavy
on my lap.

Came home
To a beating heart
Waiting for me,
What a thought!

It's been quiet
Quite a while.

This fella or
                      was it a lass?
  the compelling
         question to ask?

This unique one, with a hoot.

No, it didn't bark
                            or woof or even
meow,
                  or blow bubbles like my fish,
                                  Pop!

It never spoke a word
            or a sentence.

You could speak to it,
  can you understand my
     soft words?
   All you heard back was
                          the hoot.

Was that a yes or a no
                          or a maybe?

short and sweet,
                  or long and soft.
I couldn't tell but I thought and
shrugged my shoulders thinking,

                                   "oh' well,

My name, never mind what's yours?
                         it gave a hoot.  
So I said you look like a hoogle to me?

What's a hoogle you say,
well it's what
     this hoot looks like most of all.

    But really I just made it up.
                           "Shhhh our secret,
                 that's what it is a hoolgle

And you know what it gave out a happy
hoot,
                i think it likes its new name.

But remember if you meet this unique
   one, with a hoot.

No, it didn't bark
                            or woof or even
meow,
                  or blow bubbles like my fish,
                                  Pop!

But it will merrily walk
    and just hoot all-day and did I mention

it hoots in its sleep?
    That's why I'm awake writhing

Little dog running hard
toward the parked cars
looking and sniffing
then rushes to the next one
panting
eyes filled with anxiety
seeking the owner who abandoned it
big round eyes all teary
it must be thinking sadly
"if i get to become a human in the next life
i will do anything to be kind
adopt a cute puppy
and stay with it
until the end of time."

When dinner is ready I can hear him walking
If I get a plate he’ll come after me, stalking
Enters the room, then stares and sniffs
Bit on some clothing he knows isn’t his
But still I will miss you when I get home
Or if you’ve been good boy, there won’t be a bone
Cause the room will be empty just like your dog bed
And I hope that you know that you were the best pet

How bad could this dog’s bite be, thought the courier  
As he rang the door’s bell, stood at the barrier
The mosaic is pixelated, I won’t know
Frenzied mutt or skittish stray, ’til we’re toe to toe

Our trade sometimes takes courage, above and beyond
That’s why we’re called male men, so all can correspond
Canine fiends is what I say, not this man’s best friend
Eager to tear my tunic and feast on rear end

Time to find out whether Pompeii’s poet is pompous  
No horrendous hound in sight, still best be cautious
On the second ring promptly the master himself
Cracks the door, artsy types are eccentric, what else

Today is a lucky day, hand over the scroll
Save parts of my anatomy my other goal
Fear not, my good man, said the poet, alas no dogue
A bone from his day’s pound of flesh as epilogue

Now in his stead I have only a placid pug
The messenger was now relieved and feeling smug
He then looked up and thought: I avoided peril
Only to see the whole city meet the devil

Up goes the volcano, the joke’s on all of us
To think that for a dog warning I made a fuss
Neither the poet nor the mail man made history
Why the pooch is remembered is a mystery

I’ve never put a candidate’s bumper sticker on my car before—
why not take sides—what are you waiting for?
Death puts a stop to daily low intensity warfare but in the meantime—
      fight on!
What are we fighting for? Let’s see—
clean air and water and room to walk around in cities and deserts
America the seeing eye dog not America the junkyard dog—
collective deliberation among nations, clear passage through seas and
      borders
compact and contiguous Congressional districts that represent actual
      communities
education and health care for everyone who wants it—worldwide
good food too, affordable shelter and a living wage
a say in governance—local and global—free from fear of violence

Should you be subsumed by a cause bigger than the self?
unlike Rick in Casablanca who keeps to himself
I’m advertising my loyalties with bumper stickers on rickshaw and kayak
every time I come and go
it’s a free country—or maybe I’m so low profile no one notices or
      cares to take revenge
so small time I have time and no enemies or friends
What about Whitman and his love for Lincoln
he found a way to participate in the war that satisfied his muse, as a
      nurse
oh, I want to add space exploration and no nuclear war
plus basic science and ancient arts, black lives matter

Here are some things you have to put up with or out of mind
while enjoying the beautiful black and white photography and rousing
      Marseillaise:
that Sam, played by Dooley Wilson in worshipful subservience to “Mr.
      Rick,” endures his lonely abnegation and abstinence in Paris while
      Rick savors the nordically white, luscious Ilsa;
that Ilsa, on the lam across the wide world from pursuing Nazis, is
      apparently transporting an extensive, elegant, perfectly manicured
      wardrobe;
that Rick, in wartime Casablanca, has managed to hire a full 20-piece  
      jazz orchestra for which we willingly suspend disbelief since it’s  
      essential for singing the Marseillaise which never fails to bring tears
      of pride to Yvonne’s eyes;
I guess that’s about it except why would you spend a minute in Sydney
      Greenstreet’s fly-infested café when Rick’s air-conditioned
      establishment is right across the street, an overnice contrast to
      Maghreb culture;
otherwise, I’m in complete accord with IMDb’s 8.5 rating.

On the news last night the president changed the trajectory of a  
      category 4 hurricane. He can’t do that! Not my president! They’re  
      laughing at us!
Who’s got trouble? We've got trouble. How much trouble? Too much  
      trouble.
After Casablanca, it's headed for South Carolina.