My dog, dressed in her
pink and white thundershirt, curls
calmly on my lap.
Titan snores beside
us on his pillow, wrapped in
a pilling gray throw.
Poetry
09/13/2013 #5
My skittish dog sees
dead people roaming in the
heavy morning mist.
09/13/2013 #3
Do my dogs really
love me, or are they victims
of Stockholm Syndrome?
08/09/2013 #4
Gravel and dirt sing a slow, steady beat.
Shadows dance down the leaf-crowded lane.
On my left, dog tags clink, their ringing
my only link to regular life.
The leashes are loose, yet their gravity
is all that binds me to the ground.
Storms of fine dust lift my brown feet
beyond the towering clouds.
Inside my head, music moves and sounds swirl.
Words weave their way into lines of rhyme.
I prune the prose to fashion poems, neat haiku
of strict five-seven-five.
A shock of pain pulls me back to the path:
another blister forming underfoot. I smile
silently, thinking that soon my feet will have
no more flesh left to lose.
Like my best writing, my days have
set structure, a pattern reflecting poetry.
Miles are my meter, five-seven-five:
the week's start, week days, and week's end.
My feet pay the price for this wandering life,
shoes and skin worn thin with walking.
But the dogs and I need exercise,
my brain frames as a loose excuse.