YELLOW DOG

Abraham Lincoln, said my father, knew of a tonic

That could make you a new man, with enough left over

To make a little yellow dog. The first part is only sense;

Who does not make a new man each time he wakes

Choosing among those pieces of him that lie to hand?

This memory but not that one; this vice but

Not – never again! – that virtue too dearly bought.

From suchlike things I have conjured myself

At least ten thousand times, without a tonic.

What concerns me now is that yellow dog
Making itself impudently of the parts left over

Bad enough when he barks at me when we pass,

I on my way to work and he off to chase sticks and cats

And other dogs, but worse- far, far worse! –

Those days he grins at me or offers a sympathetic paw.

MOLLY

Yellow dog, you're the last I'll have
Who remembers my father.
No reason now for me to rise
When all the world sleeps
Put on my hat and coat
And see what clouds and stars
Have made of the sky.
I suppose I'll get to eat
The last bite of my supper
I’ll pause though, knowing
You've still some claim to it.