Junkyard Dog, Eight AM

A dog, a brown boulder,
visible through the chain link,
listens for her only friend.
A whistle—a call to greet
the open gate—and she bolts,

unbound by the drab lot.
A flatbed backs and stops,
grinds to first, and barges off.
Red-dirt flags of dust unfurl
over mountains of tires.

A trailer is unlocked
to bring out a sack of food.
Her muzzle chomps,
down in her bowl,
beneath a live oak’s shelter.

A cigar ash grows
and the sun
expands a kudzu vine
to hide the bumpers, hoods,
and fenders that go nowhere.

A junkyard is a strange and somewhat mysterious place.  We think of it as a dead end, both for automobiles and the people who work there.  Most of us do not visit them.  Many of us don’t even know where to find one.  Often, they are physically hidden in out of the way places behind large fences or hills.

Junkyards serve us by hiding our trash (and material excess).  They also provide used parts and a lot of scrap metal that can be recycled and reused.  They are part of the landscape of industrial society: rows and rows of cars sprawled over acres of fields.

The people who work there could be considered hidden servants of our society.  They take responsibility for our castoffs and capitalize on the value that remains in those old cars.  Wise junkyard operators are concerned to protect their asset, thus, the junkyard dog.

In this poem, the dog works at night and is greeted by its master at opening time.  Intruders are rare, therefore the dog has a “drab lot.”  But, come morning, there is anticipation of contact with the master and the enjoyment of food and rest.

I tried to represent the hidden and lonely yard from the perspective of the dog as a metaphor for individuals who work hard and faithfully in jobs that are invisible to most of society.  The animal is approached by none but the master, who knows it well enough to do so.  The dog does not wish to be friends with any but the master.  It is doing what it has been bred and trained to do, i.e. be an enemy to all.  This is hard work for the dog and only the master’s appearance brings rest.  The oak tree and the kudzu are metaphors for rest.  Like a blanket of green, the kudzu protects the car parts while the dog is gone (during the day).  Rest is given from above (the sun causing kudzu to grow) and often in mundane ways (dust settling like a blanket on the tires).

We live in a castaway society where people are forgotten, or regarded as shameful, if they do not provide pleasure, entertainment, or a return on our investment.  In the poem, the master’s provision of food and companionship, the tree, the kudzu, and dust settling on the tires are metaphorical coverings for the shame of castaway people and things.

I also tried to say something about contentment with one’s calling or lot in life.  The dog is satisfied to do its work, receive its daily chow, and take shelter beneath the tree.  It is thankful and waits patiently for the one friend who truly cares.

The cigar ash is a metaphor for the slow steady burn of a man’s workaday life (within which are comforts and joy).  I ended with the cigar image because I am really talking about the human experience of work and life, not a dog’s.

Broken

Between us, on a tabletop of glass,
a working hand becomes a hammer.

A man wants his way.
He won’t take no.

Blood, though not spilled, boils.
Shards ring out and sing

the ways we will not mend—
how the heart, like a fractal,
repeats a pattern of breaks
and splits when magnified.

My heart rages.  It pushes blood
along a crooked line of strife

until I heed the rattle-crack
and attend the bang of anger.

The embittered rackets rise until
the broken pieces lay at rest between us.

Suffering: A Poem To Joel Osteen

Joel Osteen you are a Champion.
Even your name sounds like
esteem.  You are reassuring,
unable to offend, and I cannot
help but like you.  Yet I wonder,
where do you put pain?  You
manage headaches and American
depression, but what about big
suffering, like that mentioned in
Hebrews five, verse seven?  Are
people who obey God happy and
content?  Sinless Jesus learned
obedience by what he underwent.

Well meant are your admonitions.
You believe in good decisions and in
Jesus by whom promises are given.
Don’t forget, as Christians, we
confess best intentions as hankerings
to be a mannequin or a magician.
Listen, one pastor said, you’ll know
you’ve encountered God when
you limp.  We are inexorable.
Happiness feels foreign.  Oh, to be
sleek like plastic, to live with
faith-expectant.  If only our ragged,
souls were not so bent.

Words are power, but
we don’t hear them.  Coaxing
can’t turn us, we must be caught!
We have a worship problem.
We won’t receive a gift until
our hands are shaking.
Ask the poet, ask Bob Dylan—
behind every beautiful thing
there is persistent aching.
Where are your sick, your sad,
your malcontents?  We read
your books to become smooth and
stiff.  Prop us up behind plate glass.
We want to be convinced.  But
we must

ask ourselves, do we love the poor;
do we pay attention?  Imagine
you visit the slums of Kolkata with
Mother Teresa.  You are
both smiling.  She sees
the people, you look at them.
You stand straight, full of promise.
She is crooked from leaning into
their faces.  You want to
help them, but you’re stuck in that
position.  The masses are borne up by
her cracks and creases.
Gleaming teeth shame them.  So

let’s close our mouths for a season.
You’ve built an empire on
your congenial smile.  Swap it
every so often, for a look of
desperation.  Do you want people to
be like you or be forgiven?
If the idol fell you would
get bruised, but you might
stop encouraging belief in
a god who gives his best only
to those who follow the rules.
That god is ruthless and his
face is never at rest.