RudyRudy is the next door neighbor's dog.
He understands only Greek. No Spanish,
no English. His eyes speak the language of Wags,
my first dog, the language of Lassie, of Tycho,
of Relámpago and Mokey, of Sukie, of Chicharrón,
the dogs of one name, no history, the eternal now.
Rudy looks at me with the blank stare
of Praxiteles' Hermes in the Andros Museum,
and the blank stare of the nameless dog
who followed me from the beach to Livadia.
I threw rocks at him to turn him back
so he wouldn't get lost. The trouble is . . .
we were friends already. I encouraged him
to follow me, punished him for doing so.
Rudy, it's bad to throw rocks, even small ones.
Worse for your small buddy to get lost.
Rudy, stay home, stay well. Bark at the moon.
Wag your stubby tail at the stranger.
Forgive me for being inept with your kin.
Issue #14, March, 2000 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.