Terriers

TERRIERS
November 1, 2006


Sunday morning, a terrier,
barking noisily and scratching fleas
and wanting breakfast.
I pat it on its soft warm head
and run my hand down its furry
back and want to know it well.
I love dogs. But I can’t have
Sunday. It runs around chasing
its tail and never stops, hour after
hour, until Monday morning, a
similar terrier, barks noisily
and scratches fleas and begs for
breakfast. I hug its neck
and whisper softly in its perky
ears but just like Sunday,
I can’t have Monday, either.
When I was ten I held onto each
day of the week like pets with
wagging tails, but each one,
preoccupied with catching them
as they run in circles through
the weeks, are nothing but
illusions of Time. The terriers
are older now, but they haven’t
aged, and I realize they can never
catch those tails. Only my
death will make them stop for me.
Yet they will go on for others
endlessly in the same circles forever.