XXXI-XXXIII

XXXI.

At four a.m. the dogs incessant bark
regardless of my begging them to quit.
Some interloper hidden in the dark
incenses them to act like little—buggers.

Our visitor’s a bold and canny skunk
who knows the limits of our canines’ reach.
Her nightly rambles would explain the funk;
so now our neighbors’ input we beseech.

A gun or trap would leave a stinky corpse
and poison could endanger local pets.
The undertaker’s niece instead endorsed
a mix of Coke and fish to bloat the pest.

This witchy tincture works within a day,
thus freeing me to sleep the night away.


XXXII.

At Christmas last my Mother gave to me
a little räuchermann with pipe and beer.
In Alpine hat and lederhosen, he
exudes an air of pure Teutonic cheer.

He calls to mind my Pennsylvania roots
together with a churchly love of smoke.
No-one could right deny that Günter’s cute:
my little office buddy made of oak.

The curlicues of incense puff away.
His moustache now is stained with residue.
The scent imparts a lightness to my day,
remembering the happiness of Yule.

In middle age, it seems a wooden toy
can once again in wonder bring me joy.


XXXIII.

In Japanese mythology I found
a monster born of bloodguilt most forlorn.
From fallen soldiers’ bones upon the ground
a single giant skeleton is born.

The Gashadokuro stands thirty feet
and roams throughout the night at two a.m.
devouring what hapless souls it meets
as vengeance has a taste for mortal men.

Imagine if we had here in the West
such stories of our veterans who fell,
unable now to find eternal rest
because we’d sent them to some foreign hell.

Would we be quick to slip the dogs of war
if armies of our dead might come ashore?