EVERY OTHER THING

A bowl full of black plums and tangerines
sitting on the kitchen table
in the red-gold after-glow of an August evening,
Half-empty tins of smoked oysters and sardines,
Pickled peppers, crackers and cheese
And a gallon jug of homemade ruebarb wine.
A sliver of purple-orange clouds
hanging on the horizon
(like a strong wind could come along
any time and sweep it away),
two poets, and a painter
(currently giving the guided tour
of his latest work)
and now the old blind dog
is moaning at the screen door again,
hoping to go out into the wide-open world again,
to be young and fast again, really,
to run wild with his wild cousins
who've been calling from the woods
all evening.
It's the same ritual every time;
he'll get as far as the tree line,
bark a few times at nothing
and wait for a reply.
Then, he'll turn around, dejectedly
(dont tell me dogs dont know dejection
or even some semblance of shame),
amble slowly home (stopping
once or twice along the way
to look over his shoulder),
then moan at the back door again
Until it finally opens.
And, eventually (after a good deal of serious
searching for something and sniffing around)
hell make his way
back to his favorite rug
at the heart of the house
and proceed, carefully,
to turn,
turn,
turn
down the creaking spiral staircase
of sleep into what must be
his favorite recurring dream-
chasing something:
grasshoppers,
rabbits,
dragonflies,
any and every other thing
that catches his perfect dream-eye,
through an endless green sea of wheat.

-Jason Ryberg, 2009