Two Poems by Taylor Graham

LOCO-MOTIVE

 

This crazy puppy, electrified

energy, wild; even after all the systematic

training, official by-the-book –

 

it was brick-boring: sit stay down heel.

She lost the nova in her eye.

It broke my patience, keeping her close

 

as a bad secret.

I packed her in the truck,

headed away. End of pavement, wild-

 

flowers past their prime, faded

like ruined puppies; stems of wild carrot,

lupine gone to pod.

 

I unclipped her leash.

She leaped feet flying, rapturous.

I called, she circled back –

 

dashed off to scout the wind-blown

world. Free as spirit,

the dog I didn’t know I loved.

 

 

47 ZXX:

 

title of my latest draft, as typed

by the new kitten.

Compared to the sable bitch, his black-

sheen coat is satin. Not so the pin-

points of his claws. He

puts her in her place. Yesterday

from the shelter, six

months old – already he’s seasoned

seaman of shifting tides

and space, the diverse shores

of homelessness.

What does he wish?

He accepts our random clutter

after the shelter’s scrubbed floor

and fluorescent corners.

He’s found a dozen spots

to hide in ambush; clambers from

paper piles to computer table,

makes himself cozy on the keyboard,

bats at images on the screen;

revises my poems

into typos, and vice versa.

What I wrote on Saturday is dead.