by Linda Fuller
I walk a dead dog.
His skinless skull pokes
through the studded collar
hanging heavy on his neck
Shreds of skin cling
to his rib bones.
His teeth show fierce
in doggy pant smile;
his osseous tail
wags and clacks.
Walks in the park randy
with spoor scent tickling
his nostrils, black nose
scored like the dead bed
of a river.
The clock that ticks in the kitchen
for company beats down his seconds,
his minutes growled away
over a hambone,
hours twitched and whimpered
away in dream chase.
Each step taken in pursuit
of balls and sticks
a step closer to the last
bone hole –
the bones he buries are his own.
Posted on 06/05/2010
Copyright © 2019 Linda Fuller
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by George Hoerner on 06/05/10 at 08:22 PM|
It seems dogs will try to play right up to the last step they can take and they still find time to love. A good but sad write.
|Posted by Therese Elaine on 06/06/10 at 05:17 AM|
Habit is a hard thing to break -even when we become the product of that habit...poor, wee thing -I can visualize this with amazing clarity, which is a testament to your writing skill!
|Posted by Tom Goss on 06/08/10 at 07:02 PM|
|Posted by Max Bouillet on 06/09/10 at 01:33 PM|
Gothic and semi-pet friendly at the same time. The images create a unique detailed image of this dog... and the last line where he buries his own bones is very intense. Excellent write!
|Posted by Johnny Crimson on 06/11/10 at 06:09 PM|
I belive that dog walk you! Nicely done.
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 07/12/11 at 04:52 PM|
Although I'm more of a cat person than dog, I really like what you've done here Linda. Excellent finish also. ;o)