Time does not repeat itself
though this afternoon looks remarkably
like yesterday afternoon,
same rudderless clouds sailing,
same yellow leaf schoonering down,
same three-legged dog hobbling by,
as he does every day at this time.
Where’s he going, this black dog,
shy a front leg?
It doesn’t seem to hurt
his dogged getting around.
His fur gleams, he sniffs the ground.
His ears flap with each hop.
If dogs are happy,
he seems to be
as he brings his pogo gait
by my window
this new afternoon.
Amen to the Ax