Dognity

What travels through our way of making sense

—a bit—of who we are and what we do,

we chart into morality, existence,

ethics left and right, what we see as true;

then, besides the making sense, we stumble

into skirmishes on and off the chart.

I may be talking Syria, in humble,

vain conclusions that don’t know how to start;

no man’s an island, though—distant bells still

toll for me. Common, human dignity

compels the coloring of lines that will

vary red and powder blue, black and green,

   and yellow—the native hue of non-resolve

   when nothing’s safe and common sense dissolves.

Yet must the ‘human’ be with dignity—

the asphalt terms so set? In walks my dog

takes me along, we talk about this theme,

the dignity of listening to God,

ourselves, the background noise, then doing what

we please. He’d start to run, I’d call a halt,

he’d stop and start to run. I’d holler that

a line’s been crossed; he slows and knows his fault

and circles back to normal paths. He sniffs

a thing or two. I smile despite myself

that training dognity would only miff

the greatest minds: those prone to deal in stealth.

   In widening gyres we have mere anarchy;

   in homeward paths we sniff our dognity.