Miso Torpedo

The man with the excellent shadow said,
"He's sort of a service dog. I came home half dead

From the hospital, and there he was,
My daughter's dog really, but he saw

I needed his help, so he stayed.
I looked like death. He wasn't afraid.

He took to me. Took me seriously."
The man smiled, half-toothed, half-mysteriously.

"He doesn't really have a name. He answers
To 'Buddy,' but it's an honorific, like Mr."

That was morning. Evening evolved
An eternity later. We tried to revolve

As fast as the sun and failed miserably.
Sunset caught us in confusion and drizzly,

In another, more westerly mountain range,
Horrific Boschean campsite, strange

And loud and much too high
Into the clear-cut sky

Near by a reservoir
Where almost local teens poured

Into swimsuits, pickups, techno,
Booze, ashes, each other, a wreck no

Family man could humbly, sadly understand
Anymore. Dionysius, madness, perfection, ampersand--

The gods of gore and glamor, of all the sorrow,
Are best served by any clamoring tomorrow

Peasantry of pieties, forced rhymes,
Sex, sadness, longing, good times.

The American teenagers, all imported
From continents where apes disported

Among the trees more quietly,
Surprised me.

And what am I? I took my group
Of father, mother, daughter, trooping

Back down the mountains to the nearest
Motel with that, of all signs, dearest

"Vacancy." We checked in. A rainbow
Appeared over head. Pain goes.

Pain comes back again. Miso soup
And a Torpedo IPA on the stoop

Of someone else's dream vocation,
An old motel, means only, again, vacation.