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BAGBOY
that day when I was small
my father let me wheedle him to name
three pups, Squiggly, and Wiggly, and Bim
the bitch had whelped
too commonly to keep 'em, he ruled
so best they got was four spare weeks
reprieve for proving false
his hound-breeder eye's experience
by and in which time
they grew to fat
and furry favorites of everyone
lapping and licking and wagging
for homeboy and stranger
craving for scratchings of their silky ears
and strokings that made them purr
that part of a popular cheeriness for which
Pa's Charity loaned
'em an even fortnight more
until that sultry day I got his call
"Fetch a bag, boy!"
He cast me an eye,
"Get a rope!"
while he held, I tucked the clumsy trio in
tied fast their pouch of whimpers
I took that walk and sent
the wriggling bundle off
to briefly fly from
the swift ravine's rude bridge
and never forgetting the bitch
would whelp again
breath held, I waited for the splash