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.
I rate no kisses In ordinary moments, But I am also The Provider Of The Food. In the minutes which I fill the ceramic bowl I come clothed in praise, When I set the food down, there, No one is more beloved. Next, I sit; I am Slathered in grateful kisses I have no escape, So food is the way to win – All pure doggie hearts, Walking is miraculous Work too, so dogs admire you.
I talk to my dogs As if they give good advice, But somehow it seems Answers always spring live from Inside me, friends, or technology. My dogs provide such Diversion of my division I can almost decide They are oracles sent with Unique provision and blessing. A cover story For crazed habits of talk, Talking to myself, answering, Sometimes I need virtuoso advice, Dogs, mine, ink in the blanks. Living all alone, By myself, on my lonesome own, My dogs remind me Of care when I would hideaway Disengage, abandon society. Tribble and Wookie, with clarity Encourage me to explore Beyond space, outside our front door; They maybe understand I have become a shadow cast present From the glories of the discontinued past, But my girls are entirely unwilling To give me up, let me fade, they love me, As well as doggy beings, hearts, minds may, It helps me keep going every day.