New Year Poem For Betsy


You may be a dog --

in fact there is no doubt,

but the equality of love

melts my self-important clout.

When we play and your silk flew

won’t sweep down like a drape —

propped up by a pristine fang

that’s getting in the way,

it matters not that humans invented the jet,

the frozen Indian dinner, or wine or the Internet.

It could be that our best invention

was simply The Dog … and yet

could we really have invented you?

Or are you a sign from God instead?

Dog is god backwards, they tell us.

You as dog are part-human,

and I am part-dog, too:

We both love the soft bed, we're

a.m. malingerers.

I differ from you in this, though,

mon chiot doux:

You have serious teeth, but I have

sneaky fingers.