An apology to the puppy

By Harry Calhoun

my acrophobia began young, the day the boy

I can’t even remember his name

told me his sweet puppy Bonesy

could fly, that I could drop

the little brown-and-white beagle

off the high concrete porch onto the

hard summer sidewalk

and he would land just fine

so young and not knowing not to believe

I dropped the dog off the porch

and it squealed in agony and died

a bag of ruptured organs and I killed it because

somebody lied or didn’t know

what he was talking about

and even now I feel as broken inside

as that poor dog and now I know

that everybody lies and that almost nobody

knows what they’re talking about

but that beautiful puppy paid with his life

and its whimpers still echo

in an endless loop

between my conscience and my gut

and I can’t stand high places because

that’s where the lies come from