Poems by James Penha

Like My Dog

My elderly poodle ambles,
no longer really walks or
ever runs through the yard.
His legs don’t work the way

they used to. He stumbles
down steps. When he lifts
a leg to pee which is very
often he wobbles to keep

his balance on three legs.
When he squats to poop,
I wait. I wait. And wait.
It does not come easily.

He does his own waiting
in the house or outside:
He stands for minutes
as if he needs someone

to tell him what to do, but
if I do he does not always
hear or understand
what I’m saying. He eats

well despite the missing
teeth. He sleeps even
better, deeper, longer
when I lift him to my bed.

Some people really do
look like their dogs. We
passed a boxer and
his boxer the other day.

I look nothing like my old
dog but at seventy-eight
I move and I don’t move
just like him.

 

Game Room

A deck of cards arrayed deuce to ace.
Face up. Pick a card. Any card. Tell him.
Risk of Rain. Rain fingers. Prestidigitation.
Fingers reign. They command. They rule.
They preside and steer. Grob Opening,
unorthodox and aggressive, surprises
by advancing the pawn, disrupting plans.
It thrusts. It checks. It mates. Jump, it’s
fun; jump, it’s easy; jump, it’s time to play
Parcheesi so return the pawn to its start
position where it must be re-entered later.

 

Lucille’s Lament

Why is the angel of death so unkind?
Devil! leaving me alone and unsure
at ninety-nine. Winged or horned: find
and take me. Have I lost all the allure

of my youth? Don’t remind me. Uplift me
and spin my corpse at the intersection
of then and now until my soul is free.
Will I see or feel? I need direction.

Will death be any worse than tomorrow?
I fear tomorrow here as well as there.
So I ask you now to end this sorrow,
this butt of life. They tell me to prepare

pray as I lose my patience and my mind.
Why is the angel of death so unkind?