different than a hound's.
Turn blue saying fetch.
rocketshot rabbits thick in the meadows and the
brush and the woods. These two hounds cutting wildly,
stretching, streaking flatout in their five-thousand-year pursuit.
Never again the supermarket line, the one where all tilt
their strange heads into cellphones, describing
our current location, wondering aloud about the mud
on their shoes, their hoop bracelets, aghast and
sputtering about a woman's ex-husband, telling Shaniqua
at the gas company this bill is ridiculous.
Never again the neighbor with the alligator nose, his
boundary dispute, his spring-loaded measuring tape,
his pale, sad surveyor holding the ribboned stakes.
The people just out of sight, over a hill,
across a creek and through two fields, or down a
rough road, through the pines and birches,
past the fogged lake you can never see across.
We will meet for coffee in the afternoons, in the
woods, at the big table with the white tablecloth.
There will be Port when it is cold, pitchers of icewater
when it is hot, and cheese, sharp knives, warm bread,
prosciutto de Parma, mustards, and dancing.
The pilot's suntanned wife in short shorts and mules.
They too will have hounds -- Whippets, Harriers, Borzois,
Pharaoh Dogs, Rhodesian Ridgebacks, Afghans.
And they will have English Mastiffs, Weimaraners, long leaping mongrels,
Dobermans, Collies, blue-eyed Huskies, dangerous,
burglar masks for breaking into your house.
Wolves for the wolfhound, deer for the deerhound.
