With His Hat Pulled Low

Damon Falke

Fact is we buried the dog beneath the house.
Pitch black and covered with so many maggots
Anything left of her seemed to move. Naturally
She didn’t move and wouldn’t move again.
We approached her with our shovels gripped
Against our chest, slithering away like snakes
Slipping-up on prey. Of course we weren’t snakes,
Though there were plenty we could have seen
Beneath the hold of that yellow house. At least,
That’s what the old farmer who hired us said.
Said his wife had died shortly before the dog,
Only the dog couldn’t stand the world with her gone.
I remember looking over my shoulder at where
The house stopped and the yard began, seeing
The farmer there between pier beams and sunlight,
Not uttering a word, just nodding the way he did.
And I don’t know about you friend, but I still
Wonder what any of us was thinking.