Maj. Payne and Pvt. Joekes

They shamble past the portrait studio
that closed, past the clinic, past Payday Loans,

morning constitutional and vodka
at the finish line. Whatever might pop

into your head to say about this duo,
Sad, disgusting, pathetic, or "charming

in a weird way," you'd be right, this old man
and his little dog, its fur a forest

of soft scabs. If the dog stinks, then the man
stinks to a higher heaven. Behind him he drags

the lop-eared dog by an ancient belt looped
around its neck, her neck, a little bitch.

She lopes along behind him proudly, tongue
dropping starbursts of drool on the sidewalk.

He could leave her all day in the hot sun
tied to a busstop sign and it would be

no catastrophe. When he stumbled back
she would thrash her tail, paw his grimy pants

and lap the warm water held in his hands.
I can speak with some authority here.

With scissors borrowed from the ICU
(no-you-don't) nurse, I clipped--rather, I sawed--

the long yellow toenails curled like frozen
comets over my father's toes. I counted

8 IV's hanging like udders around his bed,
4 monitors giving weather reports

from his planet, and 1 ventilator
labeled "Amadeus" that shook him each time

it bellowed oxygen into his lungs.
Not the first time he couldn't feel a thing,

not the last, not yet. His toenails were jagged
and crusted with God-knows, but I kept plying

the scissors at them. His feet were so cold
my hands stung, but I kept at my small job.

For what's even worse than a dog dancing
on the end of a short belt is that dog

dragging the belt behind her up the road.

Michelle Boisseau