The dog is not about the rain. Miserable brown oval lakes accuse me of cruelty. For the raindrops fall, she sudden stops, still and quaking, shakes from nose to tail. I am unwilling this walk to take, but duty tethers me. She cannot count the scents for cover of water; slick it leaves her empty. She tucks her tail, turns, trots me to the door. I warn her, in vivid terms, not to make a deposit in the floor, but does it go beyond her flying nun orifices for understanding? I doubt it; stubbornness is her template. She is that dog, glimpsed, my heart forsook reason, had to adopt, immediately. Love names her mine; pain asks me why? The dog is not about the rain.
© Jo Ann J. A. Jordan
I guess this is a prose poem. I do them on occasion. Sometimes breaking lines is an inconvenience.
As a prompt, create something in a form you rarely use.