David Boyle


My dog is brown
And lashes through the fields
Like a laugh escaping from a schoolboy.
He doesn't talk about money or joke or
Sit examinations in the gym.

But at night I dream
We're walking down Regent's Street,
Arm and arm,
Chatting about dating etiquette,
And dismantling the latest episode
Of Big Brother.

My dog smells a little
And sleeps neatly curled in a circle
Like a snake swallowing its tail.
He never gets cross or
Worries about his credit card account.

But at night I dream
We're in front of the fire at
The Railway Arms,
With our pints and packets of crisps,
Watching the barmaids
With our feet up.

My dog is dead and gone.
I loved him for his humour,
And the way his ears betrayed his mood.
He never stayed angry
With me or bitter.

But at night I dream
I shake his hand and admire
His jeans and sneakers, and
Talk to him through the evening
About mystery and dying and
The shape of souls.

February 2004


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title: books by David Boyle
Broke Voyages of Discovery Money Matters Blondel's Song Leaves World to Darkness The Little Money Book Funny Money The Tyranny of Numbers