Marvin is Still Charmin’
Each day at the shelter, I head straight to Marvin’s place, where he waits with quiet grace—for me, I imagine audaciously. There is no barking, no leaping bodaciously. He smiles wider as I near—at least to my pride, it so appears.
I unhitch the door, and he leans—to get closer, it seems. I slip the rope around his neck, and off we go on our daily trek. It’s not the same old road we’ve always taken, but he doesn’t ask if I’m mistaken. He prances, almost dances, ears aflutter. As I always do, I mutter, “What a handsome boy are you!”
Marvin is a charmin’ and pulchritudinous pooch! His tail of spun platinum does a fandango hoochy cooch. His ostentatious mane of gold and buff reminds me of dandelion or ripened cattail fluff.
I pause episodically to quiz him quixotically about his views on the President. Avoiding an unwanted precedent, he shuns direct responses, slyly ensconces his head upon my knee, and gazes up at me.
I sense some small reproach that I would even broach such an undogly subject, especially when we’re out in public.
Milwaukee Fences
I am a free-range beast
among little barnyard creatures
who know not of open air
or open sky, and when I try
to tempt them out, they rebel.
Sensing that barnyard lives
depend on shade and shutters,
an open range is frightening;
yes, and wrong for little sheep
with views so long obscured
by the long vertical and
short horizontal bars that form
their civil barnyard fence.
Families First
Come with me, nurse. I know you are new and I want to show you something. This is Donnell. When he came to us the first time, he only had a broken arm and a few bruises. Child Protective Services was, of course, notified.
After an extensive investigation, it was decided that there was insufficient evidence for the removal of the child from his natural home. After all … Wisconsin’s two most celebrated mottos are “America’s Dairyland” and “Families First.”
When Donnell came to us the second time, there were more bruises, a few enigmatic scars, and several cigarette burns on his genitals. I think he was unconscious at that time, too.
After an extensive inquiry, it was agreed by all—except for me, “the pessimistic nursing assistant” who, after all, is not a professional—that, even though there was abuse, the child still could be returned to his natural home if the mother took parenting education classes.
When Donnell came to us this third time, he had been pried from the jaws of a Merciful Death that had come to redeem what the newspapers called a kind and gentle eight-year-old boy… a bright little boy who had been beaten nearly to death, who had been stabbed nearly to death; and, for good measure, had been drowned. Apparently, Mom’s parenting education classes were not as effective as had been hoped.
Sometimes, you can see that those cool, glassy eyes were once softly brown and boyish. It probably doesn’t matter to him, but we tried very hard to braid his hair in little rows, you know, like before. Ignoring the scars, you can see he was a beautiful boy.
The woman who counts “extra charge” equipment at night always brings a roll of unctuous lashing tape and relieves herself by solemnly stationing fourteen new get-well cards from Donnell’s naive classmates and supporters.
I told her: After extensive investigation, it was decided, especially in light of his parents’ incarceration, that the child might best be placed in foster care.
Our tears were sincere and appropriately contrite, but I’m afraid Donnell still did not improve.
Sometimes, My Dears, You Ask Too Much
Oh, the beds are too much filled right now with the stillness born of death, and my ears won’t hear another howl of the mourning and bereft.
My eyes are too much filled right now with the blindness wrought of blame; my jealous hatred won’t allow me to cater to your pain.
Oh, my heart is too much hardened for the kindly pats and hugs I freely give to mothers who do not drown their kids as they might drown bugs.
“Drown yourself and leave your kids to me!” I say, and knowing what this means, I strip away my nursing whites to stop the stillness of my nights.
Oh, the beds are too much filled right now with the stillness born of death, and my ears won’t hear another howl of the mourning and bereft.
My eyes are too much filled right now with the blindness wrought of blame; my jealous hatred won’t allow me to cater to your pain.
Oh, my heart is too much hardened for the kindly pats and hugs I freely give to mothers who do not drown their kids as they might drown bugs.
“Drown yourself and leave your kids to me!” I say, and knowing what this means, I strip away my nursing whites to stop the stillness of my nights.
Rodney Merrill etc 