Good Boy
I didn’t notice the dog
until it barked, and I ran
to it so it could lick
my fingers, my face.
In the fields it taught me
a thousand scents that made
me dizzy. We dug holes,
chased other dogs, peed
everywhere, and resting,
it whispered, There, there,
my head rising and falling
on its chest, rising and falling.
Some boys need a mother,
a father, a bed, some toys,
none of them as happy as me
with the food we caught,
a puddle of water, a place
to lie down in the shade.
Remember yesterday?
I asked. Yesterday?
it repeated, dozing off.
One day a man strolled
into the field and whistled.
The dog fixed its eyes
on the stick in his hand
and took off, not caring
if it would beat him
or be tossed to fetch.
I too wanted the man
to throw the stick
for me to chase over
and over again, scratch
my ear and say, Good boy.
But when he strapped
a collar to the dog’s neck
and attached a leash,
leading it out of the field,
my boy heart broke
into a howl and I stood,
for the first time, on my own
two feet, and walked away
burying my wildness within me.
Home
When I walked home from school differently
from the way I went, I crossed my invisible wires
so badly I had to go back to untangle myself.
I retouched every fence post twice, every leaf
that got in my way, hoping to avoid the stray
that attacked me most days. I washed my hands
a lot, tapped my fingers and my toes, counted
things, upset when they were off.
When my parents yelled, Stop it! my smart mouth
yelled back, Stop what? earning it the slap.
They put me in a home for defective children
where I watched films of normal kids
making beds, polishing their shoes, putting them
on the right feet. I was made to pee in public,
take showers with other boys, clean bathrooms.
Once a day they lectured us on sin and what happens
when we let it in. I couldn’t concentrate, fell behind
and flunked out. When I arrived home my parents
slammed the door. Neighbors didn’t open theirs.
Aunts, uncles claimed not to be related.
I sat on the curb in front of a museum,
my possessions tied in a bindle dangling from a stick.
I was no-strings-attached, just twitching arms and legs.
Would you like to come in? a curator asked,
and showed me to a diorama in the Family Wing.
Eventually I settled into a routine, grew up, got a job
counting things in a repository, married a restorer
from the American Collection. Our children crisscross
the neighborhood touching anything they like
or nothing at all. They play with other kids,
do well at school, pet dogs and hug my legs
when I walk home the same course each night from work.
My full-length book of poems, Stubborn Child (Jane Street Press, 2005), was a finalist for the 2006 Paterson Poetry Prize, and my chapbook, Thorough & Efficient (Jane Street Press, 2008) just went into a second printing. In 2012 Jane Street Press also published Challenges for the Delusional: Peter Murphy’s Prompts and the Poems They Inspired, edited by Christine Malvasi. Two chapbooks, Mr. Nobody and Atlantic City Lives will be published in 2014 and 2015 by Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press and Port Press respectively.
In 2009 I received a sixth poetry fellowship (A record, I think) from the NJ State Council on the Arts. When not teaching at Richard Stockton College, I direct the annual Winter Poetry & Prose Getaway and other programs for poets, writers and teachers in the U.S. and abroad.