Aunt Suzy and My Beagle
I don’t remember anything about her,
except her name. Aunt Suzy. I last saw
her 55 years ago. My dad loved her –
couldn’t say enough fine things about her,
so if my dad thought she was okay,
then she was okay. Sweet, kind, and sort
of a looker, it was said. Dad’s sister, my
Aunt Suzy. Anyway, I don’t’ remember
anything about her, except her name,
and the time that she gave me a pocket
load of change and I bought myself
an itsy-bitsy little porcelain dog
at the Salvation Army charity shop
because I wasn’t allowed to have a real one
that barked. I called him Beagle.
I still call him Beagle –
‘cause he is.
A beagle, that is.