It little profits that an idle pooch,
on this old porch, on such a paltry street,
Wifeless and alone, I but dispense
Reproof and caution to mere passers by,
That, deafened by their earbuds, pay no mind.
This idleness offends my soul: Slurp
Every final drop I will from out life’s bowl;
Each day I’ve filled with joyful pants or howls
Of agony, no half-stepped joy or sorrow,
With or without my canine fellows dear,
Oblivious to weather foul or fair
I’ve ventured out; I am become a name,
For roaming through the streets and alleys, I
Have seen it all; Rottweilers, Poodles, the Corgis
Of queens, the pound-bound, mangy mutts and mongrels;
All know and honor Zigmund’s famous deeds:
His epic battles with his daunting peers
To claim dominion of the trash can’s trove;
Indeed, I’ve marked my passage everywhere
I’ve been, and everywhere I’ve been’s marked me,
Yet every bush, once marked, leads to the next,
Bush after bush, all marching on, over
The curved horizon, endless as ocean waves.
How tiresome to stay at home, to call a halt,
With tartared teeth unsharpened by a bite!
It’s not too late to seek out alleys new.
Though deaf, short-sighted, still keen scented,
Though not so swift as heretofore, when I
Could run down chickens, I still can dash a way;
My wounds more slowly healed, and yet still heal.
And though reduced by wear and tear, I still
Will strive, and seek, and find, and never yield.
To Strive, To Seek: by Alfred, Lord Zigmund
