Double Down

I try to make a poem in order to be smart
about the way one dog walked when he wanted to run around.
Look at my dead dog now! Demonstrated
in the slant flight of a seaplane overhead
where someone is devoting himself
to a direction I recognize.

Smudge of a dog, up and to the west, I try.
Looking to the left while I'm walking
to the right, I move
en masse, as if stuck on a raft
with my enemies.
It gets so awkward inside of me—
but the opposite is indifferent
to direction.

So I make a complaint in order to persuade
that plane down from the sky—Look!
now I'm out back, berating the garden.
My umbrella isn't in case but the cause
of the rain
coming down, and my soul is a shovel
buried in the flowers.

Copyright © 2009 Kary Wayson All rights reserved
from The Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission