There are three little dogs
outside my window,
one white,
one red,
one black.
They say Bow-wow, Bow-wow,
and dig holes in the gerbera daisies.
Or maybe there is only one little dog,
sometimes white,
sometimes red,
sometimes black,
and sometimes not even a dog at all,
but a green wolf with human hands,
or an overgrown baby
pushing its snub-nose face
at the glass, saying
ma, ma, ma-ma-ma
as I shake my head
(no no no)
and slam the curtains.
- - -
I cannot get the little white dog
and the little black dog out of my house.
They are up-turning my tables
and rooting in my notebooks
and spilling through my study
which in another house would be the nursery
(But there is no baby,
no baby,
never a baby.)
The little black dog
and the little white dog
are sitting on my shoulders,
licking my face with their milky tongues.
They say Arf-arf.
They say Arf-arf, Arf-arf.
I shake my head to dislodge them.
They fall like drops of water on a hot stove,
and I say no no no.
- - -
Somebody’s car hit the little red dog.
I find it lying outside my window.
The little white dog and the little black dog
bump at the window from inside;
Woof-woof, they say, Woof-woof.
I stoop and stroke the curled tail of the baby—
no, not the baby, there is no baby,
there never was a baby,
I have no baby—
stroke the little red dog’s curled tail.
Its mouth gapes
to hold a frothy dandelion,
seeds flooding its mouth
with a lacteous gush.
I hear the little black dog
and the little white dog keening.
I look at the window
and tangled in the curtains--
there is no baby,
there can’t be a baby,
I never wanted the baby,
I have no baby,
no baby, no, baby, no--
its chubby palms flattened against the pane,
blue veins merging with the glass.
