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?