On Thursdays,
the dog and I drive into town.
We order two beers,
one for each of us.
Damn dog can’t handle alcohol
and starts to talk,
with an accent
I can’t quite place.
Doga vu is French,
he tells me,
for that uncanny sensation
you have been a dog before.
Doga voodoo
is when you think
you’re a dog
now.
It’s a curse, he says.
A genuine, scratch
behind your ear, sniff
every crotch, hex.