My dogs are lying
like shotguns. Curled
crescent moons on the carpet

And I hate to think of how silly I am
for loving that black fur so much more than yours

Because you’ve made this hole-
apartment into some sort of cave
or den for some nonexistent pack.
Some pact that I never got to spit on
or break bread over or pin prick
my finger to touch blood with.

Like that warm winter
that I loved you and the dry heat
that was nothing like Seattle opened
every little vessel in your John Barrymore nose.
You really did have a great profile.

But now I’m sitting here stuck
with my ears clipped
you with your tail between your legs
And that’s all.

02/14/2007

Posted on 02/15/2007
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