Today's poem is by Bruce Bond

Ghost
       

The guard dog at the wrecking yard, chained
to a garage, sleeps right through his shift.
He has been briefed, but what do you need
to know. He is a prince of shadows now,
of accidental loss and whatever ghost
comes this way to comb the parking lot
of death machines, looking for survivors.
If anyone, a dog would know. No matter.
In a place like this, all dreams are good
dreams now, however grim and unresolved.
Why howl at the soul who comes and goes.
If not here, where, where if not in the great
hereafter in which, come dawn, a dog will raise
his eye, and sigh, and close it down again.

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Copyright © 2024 Bruce Bond All rights reserved
from The Manhattan Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission