Idiot Dog


Some days are walks in a magnetic suit
through clouds of iron
and umbrellas rusted inverted.
I am tired of swatting at chaos,
of banking on unhappy accidents
and random catastrophes.
I am tired of double-stitching my heart
against inevitable rents.

In the past I've often said
rather than be the optimist
perpetually disheartened
I want to be the pessimist
pleasantly surprised.
I am a liar that way.

By monstrous coincidence,
while rummaging through my trunk
of shiny objects and old ransom notes,
I put my hand in something cold and viscous
and discovered the nature of hope.
It is something from nothing.
It is conjuring, it is bad math,
the millenium locust,
or a dish made sloppily
with cockatrice eggs.

Hope is an idiot dog
chasing cars, never knowing
what it will do
when it catches one.

John Nettles




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