Some Hot Day in July

lolling

in the pool

water softly

lapping

(not as good a word as lolling)

against the sides

I balance paper

on my belly

hoping to inure

the blueblack ink

I love, so that it

does not

spread

in regal tears

down my thighs

clouds bank behind the house,

their bellies grey, not

leopard

skinned like mine,

grey but not black

so

no

rain

I have forgotten the

sound of rain

I close my eyes to

conjure

but it does not come

only the wind answers

in the dry rush of barren currants

in the rattle bones of cottonwoods

in the sickening scent of searing

flesh

from someone’s Bar

B

Q

The Chubby Dog

lies

in a hole of her own

making, having dug

against

the house, all the way to

cool

(though dry)

Earth

soon she will stand

slowly

(she is 10 in human years)

stretch and shake and walk

to the edge of the pool

I will purr and coo at her

until

she gives up and gets in,

wiggling her wiggle all the while

then

I will gently splash

her hot belly with cool

water and she will smile

straight

into my eyes, never expecting

any answers to questions of

Who or Where or Why

and so

we bob and bake,

like our brothers and sisters

on the grill,

dipped and marinated,

waiting only for a

hand

to flip us

over