Rain Dog

I think this version’s better.

Rain Dog

It’s sitting at the bottom of my bed,
glossy, black coat absorbing light,
canine teeth like spears
grinning through its muzzle
in the moonlight.
Night after night,
it’s been lying there:
like a one stand
that never went home.

First of all I fed it.
Couldn’t bear its
huge, dark, inky eyes
shining in the gloom like saucers-
but it wouldn’t eat,
left the treats just
gnawed at the duvet-
hopeful feathers
staining fur.

My friend said:
whatever you do
don’t feed it
I stopped. We sat
watching each other
for months. The growling
filled my flat like a fog horn.
Like something foreign
that shouldn’t be in this world.

My friend said:
ignore it
treat it like you would a child,
as we sat drinking coffee
one Thursday.
The monstrous child
sat between us,
with oil slick fur and
teeth like knives.

When it started
smashing up the cups
and pouring
boiling hot coffee
into our laps
we talked about the weather
and politely ignored it.
It skulked in the corner
and whined for hours.

I wonder whether maybe
all it wants is love.
Being a monster
must be hard.
Sometimes I play it music-
and that seems to help;
it lays on its back and
purrs like a cat-
sings like a thrush.

My mother always said
that if I wasn’t good
the monster underneath the bed
would come and eat me up-
but being together isn’t bad.
When in the day
I take to bed,
my dog is there
to stroke my hair-

and when we’ve rested
through the night
my dog can sometimes
run for hours. Like rainbows
cutting through the dark
my rain dog’s learnt
to swallow sun
and when it runs
and whirls and dives-

my rain dog
always
lets me ride.