Your Dog Dies

 it gets run over by a van.
 
you find it at the side of the road 
and bury it.
 
you feel bad about it.
 
you feel bad personally, 
but you feel bad for your daughter 
because it was her pet, 
and she loved it so.
 
she used to croon to it 
and let it sleep in her bed.
 
you write a poem about it.
 
you call it a poem for your daughter, 
about the dog getting run over by a van 
and how you looked after it, 
took it out into the woods 
and buried it deep, deep, 
and that poem turns out so good 
you're almost glad the little dog 
was run over, or else you'd never 
have written that good poem.
 
then you sit down to write 
a poem about writing a poem 
about the death of that dog, 
but while you're writing you 
hear a woman scream 
your name, your first name, 
both syllables, 
and your heart stops.
 
after a minute, you continue writing.
 
she screams again.
 
you wonder how long this can go on.

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