Author: Kay Foley

Thanksgiving Day and I could make
a list as long as the creek that winds
as persistent as my red dog’s barking
as thorough as the rain that falls through my roof
as storied as Paris France itself
of all the people and things for which
I am thankful and I could send
that endlessly long ribbon of a list
into the ether to float and sail and fly for eternity.

My two dogs stand poised for action
at the foot of my bed, their bodies taut
eyes focused hard out the window
the barking growling temporarily at a halt.
Those children walking by had better think
twice before pulling anything evil!
That delivery truck will never stop on our street 
again if he knows what’s good for him.
My neighbor’s dog will not trespass
in front of our house again, oh no, oh no!
Everyone passing on two feet or more is reviled.
And yet when all dies down and my two dogs
are once again lying curled in two furry balls

anyone would think, How sweet they are.

 

Fearless symmetry for this date of 11-22-11
must portend a miracle in the making
though I can claim no serious knowledge
of numbers or of reckonings.
I have no ability to foresee the future.
The numbers together equal eight
and eight turned on its side denotes infinity.
Endless bounty
limitless good
wondrous worldwide awakenings?
Ah!  As I write these words the sun
pushes through a thick white sky.
Clearly I am right.

Oh and oh and oh oh Joy
leave me not behind!
Let me not forget that
among the horrors 
of the world
you still thrive
in the breasts of birds
in the songs of trees
in the mouths of babies.
It is too easy to forget.

All the news is bad.
The day itself is gloomy.
My head aches.
These dogs wait for their walk.
A student lies dead.
All the news is bad.

I saw her again
the little woman who reminds me of my mother.
I could not say looks like.
There are just some things.
Her hair, though hers is straighter and longer.
Her size, though she is smaller.
Her large glasses, her quiet demeanor.
I cannot seem to know what it is really.
My mother in her 70s, that woman’s age,
was plump and round, vibrant and colorful
and this woman is none of those things.
My mother wore lipstick, scarves, earrings.
This woman does not.
And yet there is something.
I want to tap her shoulder
hear her voice
see her smile
make her laugh 
just to see.
Just to see is there anything there.
Is there anyone there that I know.

Maybe.  
May be.
It may be.
It may.
So be it.  
Or it may not.  Be.
It may not be.
But it may and I may.
Mayn’t it?  And I?
And you may and we may.
Or we may not.  Be.
May it be.
May it be so.
Maybe so.
Maybe.

Grass is white with frost
Black walnut trees stand naked
On this cold morning.

May I suggest
to cure your ills
a bit of cake 
a plan to make
leaves to rake
a spoon to take
a coconut flake
pies to bake
habits to break
a duck and a drake
hips that shake
a smooth blue lake
a cure for that ache
a lover to wake
and All at stake?

I cannot love enough this dog of mine
this Miles whose head lies in my lap
whose weighty chest presses on my thigh
whose paw rests warmly on my arm.
I cannot.  And yet when my Henry died
I said Never again.  I’ll not do this again.
The loss is too large.
And here I am, this beautiful unflappable
love of a dog lying heavily across my lap
innocently shoving himself into 
every crack of my heart.