The Shaggy Bodhisattva Wagtail of Maidcroft Road (R.I.P.)
for Nick
Otter is dead
and Nick you do not yet know
so I will marry your temporary ignorance
to my temporary incredulity
and steal through this window of poetic opportunity
to go and visit
Otter
at number three
for one last time
and have a shaggy conversation with his damp-nosed lordship
Yes, I’ll scratch his grateful bum
and rub the base of each angelic ear
and we’ll talk about tennis balls and sex and lamp-posts
and you and Jenny
and Matthew the cat
and the state of the sticky white rug
Because his dog-eared presence
is a million times more tangible
than this nonsense telephone news
Only three days ago
Otter takes me for a walk to Florence Park
prancing down Littlehay Road
ever glancing back at me with
his own incredulity: “Are we really going to the park?
Are we really going to the park?
Boy-o-boy, I can’t quite believe my luck...
again!”
Reading the daily tree-trunk news
graffiti-pissing his rude replies with his aerosol cock
I lie in the shade of a mulberry tree
serenaded by his patient flolopping tongue
and tug at his scruff with a smile:
Otter – my newest friend
I find and throw a suitable stick
which he fetches and fetches and fetches
with a stupid, contented canine glee
that melts the clever stresses of my human complexity
into a warm puddle of gentle, welcome self-reproach
Fetch that stick
Fetch that stick
Fetch that stick-a-de-dee
Chase that squirrel
Chase that squirrel
Chase that squirrel to the tree
Oh! Roll over Thich Nhat Hanh
Coz Otter was our living-in-the-moment man
and wherever hearts dip let the tales be told
of the shaggy bodhisattva wagtail of Maidcroft Road
who loved his grub and his ball and stick
but, most of all, loved a man called Nick
for Nick
Otter is dead
and Nick you do not yet know
so I will marry your temporary ignorance
to my temporary incredulity
and steal through this window of poetic opportunity
to go and visit
Otter
at number three
for one last time
and have a shaggy conversation with his damp-nosed lordship
Yes, I’ll scratch his grateful bum
and rub the base of each angelic ear
and we’ll talk about tennis balls and sex and lamp-posts
and you and Jenny
and Matthew the cat
and the state of the sticky white rug
Because his dog-eared presence
is a million times more tangible
than this nonsense telephone news
Only three days ago
Otter takes me for a walk to Florence Park
prancing down Littlehay Road
ever glancing back at me with
his own incredulity: “Are we really going to the park?
Are we really going to the park?
Boy-o-boy, I can’t quite believe my luck...
again!”
Reading the daily tree-trunk news
graffiti-pissing his rude replies with his aerosol cock
I lie in the shade of a mulberry tree
serenaded by his patient flolopping tongue
and tug at his scruff with a smile:
Otter – my newest friend
I find and throw a suitable stick
which he fetches and fetches and fetches
with a stupid, contented canine glee
that melts the clever stresses of my human complexity
into a warm puddle of gentle, welcome self-reproach
Fetch that stick
Fetch that stick
Fetch that stick-a-de-dee
Chase that squirrel
Chase that squirrel
Chase that squirrel to the tree
Oh! Roll over Thich Nhat Hanh
Coz Otter was our living-in-the-moment man
and wherever hearts dip let the tales be told
of the shaggy bodhisattva wagtail of Maidcroft Road
who loved his grub and his ball and stick
but, most of all, loved a man called Nick