Why are the last words
of funny fat men
always “don’t leave me,”
and why are they always
spoken to companions as they depart
in early morning? We’re all dogs now,
set racing by the sound of keys,
and we are Chris and John
and Chris, and my grandparents’ dog
Jester—four goldens now whimpering
at the prospect of solitude,
clattering brilliantly across
vinyl flooring every time
someone makes for the door.
It’s dangerous for men to need
nourishment from others but we are
dogs and it is our entire lives.
Somehow it feels more honest now,
the way we caper in exchange for love.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 4.
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