Dewlaps

I've been fond of dewlaps since

first reading about them in Joyce-

you know, when the young Stephen Dedalus's

father is imitating a hotel keeper by saying,

"He's very moist and watery about the dewlaps,

God bless him," a few pages before he utters

another phrasal marvel, "the Pope's nose,"

to name the butt-flap on the Christmas turkey.

Now I'm growing my own,

a mortal observation of the mystery

of gravity working upon meat.

Still, I choose to celebrate dewlaps,

and for this undertaking I select

the extraordinary lobes flanking the mouth

of my sister's one hundred and sixty pound

St. Bernard-Pyrenees mix.

His dewlaps drape his jaws like heavy quilts,

they are twin flags of the Duchy of Dog,

they are hanging exterior files on the cabinet of snout,

they are dueling pendulums of a white-fur metronome,

they are awnings on Dog Hotel

and are thick like a dowager's brocade.

They waft so slowly that they slow

the whole world down. We watch them dance

their damp ballet, and watching, we forget

to watch the troubled world. They fling

a thick white sputum like the ectoplasmic hands

of a clock. So time is malleable, say the dewlaps.

When the dog they're attached to reclines with a groan,

his dewlaps drape his paws. In fact, they extend

beyond his paws to dampen the floor.

I think someone could hide from all sorts

of obligations under a dewlap.

A few years back I felt an intense hankering

to witness these exceptional flaps. I found myself

singing, "going to see the dewlapped dog,"

and wound my daughter and myself up so much

we braved the January ice, and you can bet

I went down on my bum between "dew"

and "lapped" as I reached the car door.

Nevertheless, today, looking at paintings by Munch

involving curtains and assignations,

I still believe in the possibilities of dewlaps.

Ah Polonius! Perhaps a living arras

would have stopped the sword!