Black Dog Goes to Art Colony by Maggie Anderson
I like it here. I like it here. They do things in packs,
At night they pile together on the floor.
I lie down on the leather jackets and boots
and the skinny ties I sink my teeth into and shake.
Tonight, as usual, they are listening to someone talk.
I track the smells: linseed oil and mink oil,
bag balm, gasoline and tar, cigarettes.
Tall thin man smell, cologne and sweat.
Great big woman smell, plastic, powder and pastries.
That woman’s still talking and now they’ve got a fire going,
smoke and pine and burning sap, and sulfur.
It’s the fire makes them want to drowse and pet a dog.
I move to one side, then the other, to catch the petters
with soft hands, rough hands, shirt cuffs, sweaters.
The guy with the pickup truck takes me with him to the dump,
otherwise I don’t have too many duties here.
I’ve found my place to settle among the brass studs
and the leather, the elbows and knees where
I’m waiting for the shoe to drop, for the talk to stop,
for them to whistle and clap for me,
to call my name, good dog, good dog.
This poem was selected by Laura H. (Adult Services Librarian)