Mongrel Heart

By David Baker b. 1954 David Baker

Up the dog bounds to the window, baying

like a basset his doleful, tearing sounds

from the belly, as if mourning a dead king,

and now he’s howling like a beagle – yips, brays,

gagging growls – and scratching the sill paintless,

that’s how much he’s missed you, the two of you,

both of you, mother and daughter, my wife

and child. All week he’s curled at my feet,

warming himself and me watching more TV,

or wandered the lonely rooms, my dog shadow,

who like a poodle now hops, amped-up windup

maniac yo-yo with matted curls and snot nose

smearing the panes, having heard another car

like yours taking its grinding turn down

our block, or a school bus, or bird-squawk,

that’s how much he’s missed you, good dog,

companion dog, dog-of-all-types, most excellent dog

I told you once and for all we should never get.

Biography

Though he is known primarily as a poet of the Midwest, David Baker was born in Bangor, Maine in 1954. He spent his childhood in Missouri and attended Central Missouri State University before receiving his PhD from the University of Utah. He has won fellowships and awards from the Poetry Society of America, the Pushcart Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts and the Guggenheim Foundation. Currently a Professor of English . . .

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