My master laughs at me when, of a sudden,
I stop and stare at nothing, eyes blunked out
Like Orphan Annie’s Sandy, ears perked up
As if I might take flight, nose raised to seek
For nothing my anosmic master scents.
Is it the voice of Canis Major, the great
Dog Emperor, I hear, or only a distant
Siren? Does my olfaction bring me news
Of grilling steak, or, as I fear, of Alpo
From a can? Whatever it may have been
That set me, as so rarely I’m set, static,
it’s lure was superseded by that sound
That calls above all others for attention:
The mailman’s steps. Whatever else I heard
Or smelled is scarcely worthy of a mention.
For Once, Then, Something: Zigmund Frost
