Dog to Pain

Dog to Pain

                by D. Nurkse

In the slow-swift years, pain would lock me

long days in a narrow room with a fly and a water

                                                                              bowl,

re-emerge in a jangle of keys, and walk me down

                                                           those dim blocks

where small dead things in the gutter smell so

                                                                     fascinating --

free from pain. My leash was short, my collar tight,

but they could have been shorter and tighter. In the

                                                                brief moment

before dark, pain ruffled my hair. Then we slept. Or

                                                                            I slept.

Pain does not exist, except in the mind, but who does?

The cat stared at the wall, the goldfish swam in circles.

On weekends, pain took me to the park and tossed

                                                                          a red ball

and I retrieved it, with what joy I found it, gummed

                                                                                it,

brought it back in many lunges and side-scampers.

I would fetch it now if I were not healed.  

From the TLS, November 1, 2012.