I wrote this the other day while thinking about my dog Bleeker. He has quite the life.
A Dog’s Life
Beneath my kitchen table a dog comes
with a wet, black nose, his only tool,
grinding across the stone-tile floor.
And gathering up some dirt on the tip, he pulls
his tongue across to savor a bit of human food.
Soothed by the slightest taste of my dinner
he fixes himself beside the table legs
and falls uncomplaining into dreams. Seeing
this, I track an idea back through my head
like a faint smell; a dog’s life is not so mangy
a way to live for one whose resolve is
sharpened on the scent of things
and sustained by crumbs.
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