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do-wops, the tongues

      of angels and flying fish.

      Come into the shop sometime.

      We will find the beer.

      The dog howls when Linda plays piano

      gets nocturnal—lunar white depressions,

      vast, dim seas. He feels the ocean in dark leaves,

      laments for us all—a world that eats its own.

      It’s his burden, to bring what his masters can’t:

      life, a gut-bag on the forest floor, downy drifts

      rocking tall limbs, reasons for distress.

      I wouldn’t want to live there, greased,

      though perhaps we do so when we enter the world

      of basement laundry. Or maybe we go through

      our rounds to keep us from its cold fissures.

      My daughter has a burden for the small

      of this world, for women. That is why we, parents,

      re-spell “grass”: ferning colors, building.

      There is no security on this frozen dirt, except

      in the fact that God brings the world to bear

      so heavily upon us—that we, reduced to who

      we are, might leave a print, worthy

      of the dust and forms we find.

      Our other dog died, which was harder for him

      though I suppose it’s always like that—

      the going one making all the noise.

      I’m sure I’ll be hac-hec-hooing right along

      with Muriel Spark, everyone else

      when it’s my turn to brave

      that cold amusement park.

      I wish my ride could be like a saint’s,

      but it hasn’t been. And if there’s anybody

      doing that down at the college, you

      wouldn’t know it—which makes sense,

      given the noisiness of my coaster car—

      quieting the world’s not an option.

      No, I’m afraid most of us are like the many,

      bumbling our way through, too much

      of the holy water finding floor

      as we enter or leave the church.

      We are the great (spiritually) unwashed,

      the mass who, we hope, will get into heaven

      at a group-rate, kind of like Walmart shoppers.

      “Yes, yes,” Peter a little bored, waving us

      through with our small busy flags.

      They’ll be a place for us at the bar, too,

      in heaven, though many will leave

      (not judging of course as we enter).

      It will just be so many, too many new

      dart games, too much loud talk for them,

      too much carrying on—though we might

      see Francis somewhere, quiet, grinning.

      Everyone except Dodger fans.

      (I have no idea why that should be.)

      We’d all get quiet for the sunset though,

      the huge heavenly ship going down.

      Then it will be new stars and night birds,

      tennis over to the right, under leaves, lights.

      The whole place will be like a cathedral

      with posters on the trees.

      I still look for him beneath the table

      laying there, spent, when I tuck:

      the little general who passed

      like bright sails among us.

      Dogs are little guardians, aren’t they,

      signposts, doing their job,

      telling you about selflessness again?

      Of course they are only dogs,

      but that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?

      (“Here, friend, the answer’s by the biscuit.”)

      We can use all the help we can get.

      That’s why we bring them in

      in the first place. And they do it all

      so single-mindedly. “Yep, yep.

      I can do that while I’m biting this.”

      I suspect they are close to the angels:

      everybody gets one of each.

      And anyone that faithful gets the run

      of the land, which is nice recompense,

      our backyard, having been so small,

      our walks, so few.

      “Yes, yes, get off your ass. That’s right.

      How else will we get where we’re going?”

      Fr. Bob looks so old at 82

      And it’s happening to all of us.

      We get up each morning

      to see what the mirror’s been up to,

      move through the seas of our flesh—

      which ain’t too happy about it.

      Well, let that be.

      They are the world and all of its woes:

      neighbors, garbage men, late again.

      None of us ever expected this,

      the quiet rebellion, one cell at a time.

      (And rebels never know

      where they are going, do they?

      That’s part of the charm: trying

      to picture an end their new order

      can never create.)

      Here, though, I saw him on Facebook,

      in his rocking chair: birthday, snappy

      shirt beneath the sports coat,

      Madonna House north woods porch.

      Some people shouldn’t leave.

      It’s really that simple.

      There should be, instead, a field

      of statues: folks just like them,

      all life-sized, not on pedestals,

      but in the middle, moderate to high grass,

      flowers there, their favorite books, pencils—

      no sign telling you how to get there!

      I don’t want to go,

      but you can count me as a breath

      who came after.

      And if at times I feel like Pigpen

      at the University, my rising

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