A Bloody Dog

I first saw you lying alone in your cage at 

the animal refuge. I was there to perform some 

repairs; not to see you. I don’t need a dog, especially 

a down-and-out, no-hope mutt like yourself -  

a bloody dog.

I was surprised at how expressive your face was; 

your sad dereliction. Your evident shame. That evening  

at home, I was also surprised that you came to 

mind on more than a few occasions - I don’t need 

a bloody dog.

So I returned to the pound - not to see you - but

to enquire about how the refuge works and the consequence

of arriving there without prospect. I understand now that 

being down-and-out is not a prerequisite for entry. Rather,

arriving there makes you down-and-out -  

a bloody dog.

And I remembered when I was made down-and-out

through no choice of my own - another’s decision. I recall

the growing sense of abandonment, the shame 

that increased my reproach; when others thought me 

a bloody dog.

I had no choice really. I couldn’t, in all good conscience, 

leave you to the end that had been so clearly explained to me. 

You may mistake my act as one of love, or intent, or 

the weakness of an old man, but I don’t need 

a bloody dog.

And just because you're intelligent enough to 

read my moods and soft-hearted enough to 

care what I think, doesn’t mean you are ever 

elevated above the status of a mutt - 

a bloody dog.

Sitting quietly with your head on my knee, hang-dog eyes 

devotedly watching me. Doesn’t impress me one bit.

You won’t persuade me that you are sharing my 

reproach and shame no matter how convincing you are. 

You don’t care for me -  you’re just an 

old bloody dog.

There is one reason I keep you around - someone 

has to look after you.  

I care for you. I look after you. 

I rescued you, to save you from being 

a lonely bloody dog.

MDC

June 2020

 

Rocket Man

He can’t afford the stellar prices of a unit in 

the city so must reside in a satellite.

His Ford spaceship rocketing him back and 

forward along a trajectory as black as a 

hole, certain that the cost to his flesh of all that 

time spent in stasis will one day have to be 

paid. If his goal was simple efficiency he would 

eat, sleep and work in the same room and he 

knows he doesn’t want to be a hermit. He 

feels alone when spending all that 

time solitary at the helm. Solitude is not a 

problem to him, but he can admit to himself that 

loneliness is. He wonders how many other 

planetary travellers are alone at their helms, in 

their satellites, eating microwave dinners, 

with the TV on but not watched, or music 

playing to assuage a burnt soul (but all the music 

in the universe is not enough to bring 

healing). And people whisper their envy of his 

far away dwelling place, and his fine rocket ship. His 

spacesuit, the only thing protecting him against the 

harsh realities of his environment, is cause for 

speculation and lust. And he doesn’t know how to 

relate to someone’s misperceptions of who he is 

and why he lives how he does.

He is in a stationary orbit, slowly spinning around 

a large mass of people who don’t know 

he is there.

MDC 23/10/2020