Something Empties

An unusually cold morning

In southwestern Utah brings out
An unhappiness among dogs.

On each corner around the block,

A charming, well-lit coffee shop,
Locally owned and proud of it

Does a brisk business for locals
And the more durable tourists,
Proud of camping in off-season,

But all the pride and joy is lost
On the dogs, whether left in Jeeps
To stay warm, whining through windows

(One shih-tzu wailing mournfully,
One massive Newfie pawing doors),
Or pegged on leashes to stay close

Like the whimpering Beagle
Curled around her silver muzzle
By the door of Deep Creek Coffee.

I sit outside for my own pride
And listen to the dog noises,
The clatter and chatter inside,

The clattering wind in black twigs.
A faint sun alters the dark peaks.

Among caffeinated campers gone out

And blear-eyed cheery locals come

From across the streets to the shops,
I spot one ragged, solitary man,

Shoulders hunched in his dirty coat,
Beard matted, ball-cap stained, head down,
Keeping clear of the louder dogs.

When he reaches the street corner,
However, he pauses, swivels
His head both ways like a school kid,

And when there are no cars at all,
Goes on his solitary way.
Time to get philosophical,

Nearing the end of a cold poem.
Consider how cautious of life
We are as our prospects dwindle.

Consider that we never die.
We die to each other, we die
To our awareness of our selves,

We vanish, as such, gone for good,
But we never were anyway.
Still, we howl like abandoned pets

Abandoned or not, and shiver,
And look both ways and are careful,
Because, as beasts, we want to live,

And, as us, want our beasts to live,

And as collective entities
We want, well, most of us to live.

But dying or going away

Forever and altogether
Aren't the same sort of nothingness.

I used to be almost convinced
That the use of "I" in a poem

Was arrogant and old-fashioned,

But, as you read, now that I'm old,

I'm so arrogant, old-fashioned,
Crotchety, and unrepentant

That these days I'm I half the time.

Still I will grant part of the point.

The ego's eye is a phantom.

Beasts can live full lives without it.
No one beast ever owns their own.

You can take it, love it in bed,

But it will take off during sleep.

It's not real. It's too beautiful.

Still the head swivels, looks both ways,

And social animals gather,
Bringing each I inside the shops.
Outside, whining, something empties.