Ghost

--Bruce Bond

The guard dog at the wrecking yard, chained

to a garage, sleeps right through his shift.

He has been briefed, but what do you need

to know. He is a prince of shadows now,

of accidental loss and whatever ghost

comes this way to comb the parking lot

of death machines, looking for survivors.

If anyone, a dog would know. No matter.

In a place like this, all dreams are good

dreams now, however grim and unresolved.

Why howl at the soul who comes and goes.

If not here, where, where if not in the great

hereafter in which, come dawn, a dog will raise

his eye, and sigh, and close it down again.