Mollie By Keith Gorman

My neighbor’s border collie is rolling

in the cow dung. That’s right, back first, then

flopping face down, making sure that she

receives a complete covering. And as I am 

leaning on the fence watching this event,

it occurs to me that this dog—this collie— 

is loving every second. Her eyes glass-like, 

like a shark’s eyes, and each time I call her: 

Mollie! Mollie! Come, girl! she continues 

rolling and ignoring me. But soon the spell

breaks, and she leaves the trance long enough

to approach the fence, shaking side to side,

swishing her tail, then jumping to place 

her paws on the top rail. As I stroke her head,

she pants herself to the brink of letting out 

a loud, primordial bark, a signal of sorts that 

I should join her, the sour odor of the dung

wafting into my nostrils as she ricochets

back from the fence and resumes rolling

side to side, paws flailing into the first light

of the morning. I open the door to my Ford

F-150 and adjust the side mirror where I can

still see Mollie’s movements. As I pull away,

my mind turns to the day ahead:

the traffic on the turnpike, the rent, and taxes.  

Keith Gorman is a retired factory worker, poet, and classical guitarist who lives in Eastern Tennessee near the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains. He received his BM degree from the Sherwood Conservatory of Music in Chicago, Illinois. His poetry has been published in various journals, including Verse-Virtual, Delta Poetry Review, I-70 Review, Muddy River Poetry Review, Chiron Review, Impspired Magazine, and The California Quarterly Review.