The Smell of a Dog

I love the way a dog smells.

Ever since I was a boy,
I have loved the smell of a dog's paws,
leathery pads, edged with fur,
that absorb the rich, musty fragrances
of where the dog and I have been
in our adventures together.

I love the smell of the top of a dog's head,
where the fur is smoother than at any other
part of the animal
and is usually cleaner, too.
The top-of-the-head smell is fresher than the paw,
more like the smell of a little boy's hair
at the end of a summer's day in the sun.

I don't mind
the faint smell of skunk on a dog,
(but only if it's faint) .

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poem by Ken Nye
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When the Children Leave

We go through the motions when the children leave,
buy special dresses or rent tuxedos for the wedding,
find a special Maine gift to celebrate the move to California,
write reminder notes for the bachelor son heading off
to the city after graduation.

But even though we participate
in these celebrations of the future
our hearts are tinged
with melancholy,
a vague awareness of the inexorable momentum
of time's pendulum
that sweeps our little ones out of our arms
and into adulthood,
overwhelming us with the golden weight
of the years gone by.

We were there once.
We know the thrill of independence,
the passion of a new love,

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poem by Ken Nye
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Crossing America: July 4,2005

Crossing America,
I see small nations within its cities,
neighborhoods of people
who dream of happiness in myriad languages, and
who love America no less
because they cannot yet use the magic tongue.

A tenth generation American,
with roots that can be traced to
Boston gentry
and pioneers,
I wait in line
for a hamburger and milkshake with people who come from
the other side of the world,
still learning how it is done in the land of dreams.

Crossing America,
I hear children pledge fealty to our flag
and hope that what sometimes is
an exercise in thoughtless ceremony

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poem by Ken Nye
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