Holes

 

I’ve dug too deep and a reckless fork

has struck guts and gore

with a piercing hiss:

the smothering stink of dog remains.

I quickly cover a forgotten cadaver

but memory fastens upon the odour

and tugs me along again:

a guide-dog for the blind rejected

for showing fear when near traffic,

and a discomposing habit

of staring at the heavens. 

Neither trait was prominent

when licking and lolloping

her way into all affections but mine.

I was convinced she feigned incompetence

in search of role satisfaction:

the comfy basket and chocolate biscuit,

the leisurely stroll and roll in sheep shit.

My missus said that that was rubbish

and recalled the time that I purported

to be fond of dogs myself so as

to worm my way under her bedsheets. 

I was star-struck in those days, I replied,

hadn’t yet learnt to avert my eyes from the skies

and avoid stepping in dog-shit.

When will I ever stop digging?