My Dog has no Nose
My dog has no nose. Then how does he smell?
My wife went gadding off to the West Indies.
Those awful jokes I told and I still tell.
She went. Her own accord. And we are well.
She’s in Jamaica now. My dog is with me.
My dog without a nose. What does he smell?
Defeat? He nuzzles me. And for a spell,
the fly, the soup, the too-young-to-smoke chimney,
aren’t awful jokes. Just old. Or so I tell
the dark. The lightbulb will not change itself,
and nor will I. I sulk. What if I stink? He
(my dog, no nose) adores me. He can’t smell.
A door is not a door, when it’s…? (Don’t yell)
ajar. I am ajar, alone, unhinging.
Those awful jokes I told and still I tell
the ache that longs to answer when no bell
has rung. Knock knock. A slamming door. Cold. Windy.
My dog has no nose. So how does he smell?
Awful, I suppose. The joke is: I can’t tell.
Joe Crocker
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Joe Crocker
