The Here and Now

This one's about Maundy Thursday 
and the here and now - 
about longing, aching to be my dog 
for the rest of my life and a week, 
as the familiar, scrambled-up, 
jigsaw-brained questions rise again 
inside and lead me toward the hole 
that is all I cannot know
to be swallowed up for nothing 
by everything; while she lies on the rug 
scratching, easily off, her fleas, 
and wagging away the here and now.

About the gone for, dirt-shoddy pack
of six and five year-old redneck kids
in the seven-eleven at twelve o'clock,
as I watch from the darkness outside 
and die of pity for them and for our mankind;
while they buy a pack of 45-cent gum
and loudly slurp away all that remains 
of their monthly coke icees,
and the joys of the here and now.