Dog/Buddha
       

The air, just now, tinged
with jewelweed and the amber
talc of pollen. Lemon zest
of sunlight knifing off windshields.
Tang of wet wash drifting
on clotheslines. A brief burst
of bubblegum. Chalk on a sidewalk
where girls leap at hopscotch.
The metallic whiff
of a freshly-skinned knee.
Hydrangea. Cardiocrinum,
with its dangle of alabaster bells.
Cedar sap from a newly-set
fence. A dozen dinner scents
from summer's open windows.
Somewhere nearby something
has died. Already it begins
to dismantle in the breeze.
Laughter, stiletto shouts,
bicycle tires' hum on asphalt,
radio flare and the pesky munch
of a blood-bloated tick —
all caught in preposterous
flopping ears, bright wind-teared
eyes, and the quivering black nose
which marks the furthest point
of that abandoned leaning
as the car accelerates—
sight, sound, taste and feel—
everything as it is, just now.

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Copyright © 2020 Frank Paino All rights reserved
from Obscura
Orison Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission