Interview with an Old Dog

Dog that has grown old.

What use am I to you?

Does the time we have shared encompass your bed?

Do my words of comfort…

Rest your weary head?

Will our days of glory…

Remind you of time being short?

With confidence…

Understand where this homily leads…

You have protected me from monsters…

Both seen and unseen.

Learning to Heel

‘Cruel to be kind’ he leaned in and slobbered.

Could not have got closer…even if he tried.

The dearest of friends.

I hasten to look for more comfort.

In not so recent times, he has taught me the reverence of learning to heel.

A hound…hounding my every step.

He has taught me…the blithe of  a smile that is given…not kept.

Breeds of Sheltered Goods

 

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Nothing but fictional logos.

A place to put things…

when there is no comfort between you and me.

Storage sheds made of un-evolved wood.

Denizens that have come and gone.

Potted, elemental, melting pots…wary of humans on the sly.

Mixed with pedigree

and,

breeds of shelter goods.

To awakened to question why.

As I watch,mistress-1

my venerable hound,

purposely toil her way up the passage,

decidedly being syrup slow.

The thoroughfare is muted.

Not a cloud dresses the sky.

Not a gesture of intolerance crosses her mind.by-design-2

 

Stray on a Short Bus

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Unleashed…four legged locomotive…loose about town.

Having a bit of a breakdown…while dreaming of creepy clowns.

A renegade of suspicious, superstitions.

Cruising at high speed…without keys in the ignition.

Never cried over Momma’s spilled milk.

Promises of lies without the guilt.

 

But, honey, dear, this is how it is…

when you live with a forest of chaos…no longer pining for the trees.

A collection of black cats for my coven.

I always leave headroom for two…in my easy bake oven.

 

Nothing can replace, my tomboy dog, fast tracking anything that moves.

She ain’t got much rhythm…

But pocket dogs beware…when she’s in the groove.

 

Passerby’s claim she just don’t seem right.

Yet, that hound has licked more sense than a handful of

small-town bad chances…

on a dreary Saturday night.

 

Unadoptable… I guess, that is what you’d call us.

Strays on the ‘bite me’ short bus.

No taming this shrew, undomesticated four pawed dust.

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