After Death
Don't tell me
my dog’s not
in Heaven.
It doesn't mean crap
if you think there’s a Heaven or not
and if we can't know for ourselves
how can you know for my dog,
who loved me more
than any human ever did,
showed me in a million ways,
always wanting to walk, play,
lay by me when I was sick,
not eat till I was well,
bark every bogeyman,
possum or garbage truck away,
eyes on my every move
till death did us part.
What a special man
I was to her.
I loved her,
walked her,
mapped our neighborhood,
played with her,
threw uncounted sticks,
scuffled her floppy ears,
every sniffle to the vet.
I was dog’s best friend.
We gave each other more comfort
than even Heaven could.
If lots of people
conjure or assume
some kind of afterlife
for humans,
angels, harps, gold streets,
virgins sucking down grapes,
a smothering Oversoul,
one God, many,
don't tell me Lola
is not there,
damn it.
Rollicks in those green fields,
romps with other animals,
chases down those sticks,
inexhaustible as my love.
She is.
Vern Fein
Vern Fein is a
career special education teacher who decided to write fiction after he retired,
but wrote a few poems also and now has over seventy poems published in a
variety of venues like *82 Review, The Literary Nest, Bindweed Magazine,
Gyroscope Review, Ibis Head Review, Former People, 500 Miles, and The Write
Launch, and has non-fiction pieces in Quail Bell, The Write Place at the Write
Time, and Adelaide, plus a short story in the online magazine Duende from
Goddard College.
Tags:
Poetry