“Antlers,” “Adirondack,” and “Fat Dog”

I wish I had antlers.

They’d stop the small talk.

Nothing too fancy, maybe 30 pounds,

four or five points per side.

Every spring they’d grow,

soft and velvety.

I’d rub them against

the sides of buildings and lamposts.

In summer, I’d let children swing

from them, maybe hang

a windchime. I’d always get

into the most exclusive clubs,

walk right past the bouncer

who’d nod and open the rope.

You don’t see a guy with

antlers in a Tom Ford tux everyday.

At the bar, I’d order a bourbon,

shoot my cuffs,

check my Rolex.

I’d never have to speak first

or answer what I do for a living.

I’d just say back off, man,

it’s rutting season,

and spit an ice cube back in my drink.

Facing the marsh sits the Adirondack,

bone white, exact, fit for a Kennedy.

Three slats of manufactured wood align

and meet at a precise angle, three more.

Atop its wide and waiting arm

alights a gray and white mockingbird who

opens and closes wings against the Sun.

He (it is just a guess) belts a borrowed song,

a cardinal’s call, as the mocking geese

pass overhead, their calls a kind of laughter.

No matter. His throne, impervious to sound,

of remade things—

milk crates and car seats, necessary then not—

sits atop the rot of a rain-black deck

ready to return to the unmade earth.

To the marsh and the chair and rising tide,

the mockingbird sings:

what cheer, what cheer, what cheer

His scent reaches the dog

before he reaches the door.

One hundred and fifty pounds

of Husky and German Shepherd

skids across the foyer through

mounds of unopened mail,

shredding an LL Bean catalog

as he leaps to shoulder height

giant pink tongue finding

eyes, ears, cheeks and lips— he laughs.

"Shhh, good boy, gooood boy,

where is everyone?"

He gathers the mail from the floor,

stacks it on the table under

the entry hall mirror,

catching every second of ten years.

Same street, same hillside,

same Tarzana tract home,

same furniture, new dog,

another cancer.

The shouts

from the back of house

startle him, not the dog.

He ventures deeper into the unlit

living room, where marble meets shag,

and nearly steps on dried dog shit.

The beast presses against his

leg, refuses to look up.

On the coffee table two cups,

growing something bluish green,

next to more paper, a dead laptop.

The smell

reaches him before he hears them again—

pain sweat

bed piss

fear damp

anger tears

A voice,

"Let me be. I've had enough of this,

enough of you."

A ghost

small and white,

floats toward him

behind a walker with two split

tennis balls on the legs,

not a ghost–

Auntie, in a parachute muumuu,

one sock,

eyes glassy, afraid.

“Auntie, it’s me. From Boston.”

Her face works at him,

a puzzle, or word almost there

pushing through the oxy—

Nothing,

but the big dog's heavy panting.

"Ohhh. When did you get here?"

as though he was in the neighborhood.

Uncle follows behind with a wad of bedsheets,

drops them—

"Jesus.  She wouldn't get out

of bed, again. See what I’m dealing with?”

“You’re so loud,” complains Auntie,

all stick arms, scapula sharp shoulders,

nothing but cotton and paper,

her smell,

close, specific.

“Did you see the deli spread?

From Gelson's,” says Uncle.

”Can’t get that in Boston.”

”I’m not hungry,” says Auntie.

“She won’t take her medicine.”

“I should take it all at once.”

The table,

witness to 63 years of bar mitzvahs, weddings,

sitting shiva, god-awful brises,

they know well enough how to lay it—

lean pastrami, seeded rye, yellow mustard,

Dr. Brown's cream soda,

a dozen pill bottles,

Auntie and Uncle at opposite ends

avoiding eye contact,

chewing instead of arguing,

(a blessing)

dog's chin in his lap

waiting for scraps.

"How was your flight?" asks Uncle.

"How was your flight?" asks Auntie.

"The dog left a mess on the carpet," says Uncle.

"In the den, too," adds Auntie.

"His name is Chase," says Uncle.

"He's too damn fat to chase anyone," complains Auntie.

"Well, he just keeps eating," defends Uncle.

"Oh, he cooks for himself?" asks the Nephew.

Uncle laughs.

"Well, he has two electric water bowls that run all day."

"Uncle has hidden all my money," accuses Auntie.

Outside,

the gardener blows six small brown leaves

from one side of the patio to the other,

one landing in the algae green pool.

Beyond, the San Fernando Valley tilts up,

struggling for air,

impossible snow on the distant San Gabriels.

"Can I take Chase for a walk?"

"He doesn't go for walks," corrects Uncle.

"He barks at people," adds Auntie.

"Will you visit your mother's grave at

Forest Lawn?" Auntie, through a

mouthful of potato salad. "Mine is next to hers."

"C'mon boy, let's go for a walk."

He knows the word.

Chase bounds for the front door,

whole body wagging, thunderous barks,

speaking Husky.

The door

groans, pulls open stiffly.

The two stop for just a moment—

the sudden smell of jasmine.

What if we just

keep walking, boy,

all the way to Boston.

Chase starts to run.