Roger Pfingston



Twenty-two years dead, my doing,     

I being the one who led him       

to the car, his joy, tail wagging

as I drove him to the vet.


One night, though, still young

and alert, he saved us all—me,

my wife, our two kids—

when the motor in the oil furnace froze,

poisoning the house with smoke

like metal shavings filling our lungs.


It was Henry’s whining and barking

that got us up and out of the house.

The firemen did the rest as we

huddled in our car till the noxious

fumes had cleared, Henry jammed in

between us, unbearably happy,

expecting a drive into town

or maybe the countryside.

Roger Pfingston has poems in recent issues of I-70 Review, Naugatuck River Review, RHINO, and Ted Kooser’s column, American Life in Poetry. His chapbook, A Day Marked for Telling, is available from Finishing Line Press.



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