by Laurie Joan Aron

The Nobel Prize Committee knows, he said,
Everything that's happening around here.

They must know, then, why the dogs point
With gravitational certainty to that hole
Under the oak, where having yanked their walkers
Down the hill, they dig until they're dragged away.

And why the pigeons are changing color,
The squirrels shrinking, the sparrows growing,
Why we are mistrustful of shadows and each other.

And why we don't wonder about the coroner's car
Parked there. We don't ask the doormen, who know all.
They know why the coroner's car is there, but they'll clam up
Or laugh with narrowed eyes if you mention the dogs.


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