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Poems by Jim McCurry
Dogwag Bummerstead Assembles His Guardians
To Instruct Them and Help the Jazz Band Rehearse
for His Funeral
One's own death is the only
one that does not matter.
It seems to me that I took last summer
Like a cold bath without appointments.
Kettle drums announce the arrival
Of some potentate on the horizon.
Dawn ripples on a lake
Open like a fan.
License To Bite
Dogwag's angst?
It never shows.
In the ionized atmosphere,
the secret hours of night,
he worships the refrigerator
in all its white obesity--
its magic light,
the secret tap
of its door.
(first published by Farmer's
Market magazine)
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