I am in Louisiana with the dogs,
my lost generations of dogs.
How I got there, what budget tour I’m on,
whether my papers are in order,
my visa credible, is a total mystery.
Moments ago I was in Wangaratta
revisiting our first house. In the garden
a neighbour stole a bright apple from
my mother’s tree. Exposed, she hid her breast
like Masaccio’s Eve in the Expulsion.
The streets of Louisiana are more righteous.
Touristic, I notice Bill Cosby,
violet-haired in drag, licking an ice cream.
The cafés are full of immense African Americans,
all dressed in black, silent, facing forward,
not even eating, just watching.
Stirred, I think how much more moved
they must be after Tuesday’s election,
how my shy stake in it is dwarfed by their solemn vigil.
I must write an article about this, I tell myself.
On the outskirts of town,
past the new factories and abattoirs,
I reach The Marbles,
wondering how my dogs will cope
on the slick black jagged rocks.
Trushka the samoyed
crosses them with aplomb,
leading the way, beautifully groomed,
what you might call a self-starter.
Down a murky drain she disappears.
Fatalistic, I think to myself,
‘That’s the last we’ll see of Trushka’,
but soon she reappears,
waiting for me. ‘Are you coming, Pete?’
‘Yes, I’m coming, I’m coming,’ I pant.
Then Sammy the wonder dog
props on her rump as she often did when
she’d had enough of my epic, solipsistic walks,
as if to say, ‘Enough with the futile Marbles,
enough with this American zeal,
enough with your article, your poem,
whatever it is this time –
enough with Louisiana.’