To God


We are the dog who thought you’d take us out
and then, when you did not, perfunctorily
peed on the rug. Why can’t we make you see
this isn’t what we hoped would come about?
But there’s no point in whimpering. I doubt
you’ll even hear our tragicomedy, 
let alone touch, taste, smell, worry, agree,
throw us a ball. You’re busy! You have clout—
concierges, agents, doulas, ombudspeople
to broker deals, hatch schemes and intercede
along the way. Whether or not we sleep well,
you’re watching us. You know just when we need
a biscuit—and however high the steeple,
our leash is looped over it. That’s our creed.

Claudia Gary


If you have any thoughts about this poem, Claudia Gary  would be pleased to hear them