The Yellow Dog

I am the blinking yellow dog who just loves to say hello.

I am the game-show host who has no prizes.

I am the piece of buckshot you lodged in a neighbors tree, that falls out in spring.

I am the wine that sat out for two days that you decide to drink anyway because there isn’t anything else left to drink in the house and it’s too cold out to walk to the store.

I am an old love song in the jukebox that nobody plays anymore.

I am the ripple on your tide, it comes like a named stranger, and deflates each worry and boe.

I am the lonely cartographer, who hasn’t found his way out of town.

I am the wounded albatross, with worn bruised knuckles sitting on a shelf.

I am a world-weary explorer, who dreams of a penguin counterpart and a shelf.

I am that picture on your window, that you dream about when the days get low.

I am the cloud above the sea, that the fish think about, and call god.

I am the thoughts that box your ears when you swear, you’re just trying to find some sleep.

I am your blinking yellow dog that waits by the door; alive, to say hello.

I am the pitch, before the match, like the angel to the dove.

I am your friendless organs, the ones who never strike, that you never think of or are grateful for.

I am the solo rider, forever crossing the plaine,

I am the hum-drum circuitry of the world of life and death.

I am the tip of ambiguity, a mystery meant to be remained.

I am the past that died with now, echoing ashes down the Nile.

I am the King of Tomorrow, read and ready, to rescind my crown.

I am the sloppy organ swell, in the good fight of the surface.

I am the epiphany that swims away into lost verses.

I am the being who wonders; could life just be a death?

I am the splintered fingers, swooning from a branch, poking through dense mist.

I am the joyless flavor, white and black and blue and pinched.

I am the young man with no highway, no war, and no memory to lynch.

I am a room of crowded specters, of careful hallways, and a moon with a thousand ends.

I am a broken hull that didn’t hear it’s curtain call, and waits for its next voyage, like a yellow dog, clamoring behind a door, happy to say hello.


3 thoughts on “The Yellow Dog

  1. Brian K

    I don’t like the form, ‘I am’ poems usually look like self-gratification to me, but I really enjoyed this line:
    “I am an old love song in the jukebox that nobody plays anymore.”


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