Sick Dog
A poem by Ace Boggess

Sick Dog

Gift-wrapped box of ruins,
circus tent over a sewer,
her pug has a stroke, a facial tick,
bouts of amnesia (what is water?
what is food?). Rear, arthritic
legs move like a robot’s,
like stilts under a round man.
The dog sleeps all the time,
snoring in tune with radio static,
wakes to a world she can’t recall.
That’s life: the thing that never ends
well, but will end. Well,
that’s philosophy, as is this:
if a dog can’t recognize food,
can what exists be called
a dog? Might as well be
a tiger without teeth, zebra
stripped of jailbird clothes,
a priest speaking to a god
he ceased to believe in
before breakfast, staring
at his reflection in a spoon.

About the Author:

Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy. His writing has appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble. His seventh collection, Tell Us How to Live, is forthcoming in 2024 from Fernwood Press. 

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