Rusty

Rusty was an old dog by the time I’d met him.

In the end, he made it to fifteen,

Which is damned old for a dog

He was a helluva guy.

He’d been tripped over,

Had his balls cut off

Had his feet stepped on

Been hit by a car

Been shot with a handgun

And been subject to years of

Chemical, noise

and other industrial exposure

that comes with hanging around a motorcycle shop

He would always greet me

with a big Collie smile

and a friendly, but slightly vacant

Collie face

When female customers came to the shop

he would follow this greeting

by burying his face

in their crotch

and waiting to have his back scratched

Bastard dog got away with

this type of behavior, too.

In his younger years,

Rusty was known for

Making his own way

The two miles

between his home

and the motorcycle shop.

He indeed may have had

more than one master

other homes

and perhaps

a number of bitches

He will now sit

In a motorcycle cylinder

On the counter

Of the Moto Guzzi shop

His ashes entombed

Where his presence

Will be missed the most

In the end

Rusty left us

With Collie sizes holes

In our hearts

That will not heal

Completely