Cynic’s Sonnet

Bertha Rogers

CYNIC’S SONNET

Time’s shown in another year, this new one

not cold enough to veil the last’s muck— 

the sky’s dirty as a hard day’s work shirt.

The pup barks—the dog who died taking over 

her body, reincarnation proved, for what?  

The age has shifted, and the pup chews the chair,

chiseling new incisions over old. 

I sit at my desk, worrying how I’ll 

manage the coming cadence, wishing I’d 

managed to file these papers out of sight,

hoping the turned time will be different, 

knowing it probably won’t—but for bones 

eroding and deferred work accumulating; 

my inner life wanting, hours discharging. 

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JULY’S BODY

Every night the same— 

southerly wind,

brindle dog’s tongue flicking

within the desk’s hot cave,

fan convulsing screened wind,

books’ pages flagging shelves.

And you am nothing but 

this house of flesh and bone,

Heart running structure,

anima complaining,

lungs like lumps pumping wind

out to in, in to out,

cubicles too small for breath.

O fugitive weather-body!— 

early morning’s damp dark—

frogs handing it over rained air

surveying many-fingered maples,

calling calling for cool.