Dog's Life © 08 Fraser Harrison

Our dog has had his day.
Deaf, daft and stiff, he lives
to sleep, his soccer-rattle snores
cheering action replays
of old pleasures. His dream rabbits
aren’t bunnies fluffy-tailing
across his youthful meadows,
they’re corpses, rotted medium-rare
and seasoned with maggots.
I bet he mostly dreams
of dreaming, of great fires
that broiled his brains,
of his top ten, all-time best sleeps.
He’s on death row now,
due for the needle
just as soon as we decree
he’s slept long enough.

And my father – deaf, daft
and excruciatingly stiff,
his day done long ago –
what dreams beguile him?
I bet he dreams of simple things:
his pipe, peeing, buying the paper
on a clement day and cursing
without a care, the foolish world
that now takes care of him.
He’s on death row too,
but must await Death’s pleasure,
not the needle’s kind decree.