Bindi Barked (Poem)
“Bindi barked
at neighbors
and squirrels
and the ghosts of dogs
and the ghosts
of their poisoned coyote foes,
those murderers,
who are only hated
for being born on the
other side of our
cinder block walls.
I told her “Quiet!”
Glad for the watcher,
and glad for the alert.
I told her to “bark
maybe only once.”
She looked at me,
head cocked,
attentive.
I turned my back.
She barked once more.
I scolded her.
She sulked back in.
I wronged her.
She learned my language.
She obeyed my will.
What more could be learned
about human language
by a one-year-old mutt?
Wisest of all.
Tastebud of God:
innocent.
ignorant.
perplexed,
but at peace.
Meanwhile,
her feline sister tries to speak
by literally pissing on the keys
of the figurative cosmic piano.
Her parents may
have ears to hear
the crying infant,
the raging sea,
the restless mob.
These all reveal
the temperature of the Spirit.
So receive the insight
but don’t judge.
Bindi learned the vocabulary.
Maybe the syntax too.
But not the human drama.
And she’s glad to decline a translator,
if I’ve got a dried chicken claw.”
Note: This was written in quarantine during the 2020 pandemic. The poor dog didn’t quite know what to make of our new lifestyle, having been living on the road for months at a time and running freely on Gulf Coast beaches.