I.
Picking burrs off my dog
his heavy head in my lap
he raises a paw, now two, to my face
stretches languidly, looks up at meÂ
love settled in his brown eyes.
Rain drops quietly outside
the homely warmth of our house.
Miles is a one-woman dog and I
at sixty, know my fate is now sealed.
I will never be a world traveler.
II.
Five thirty in the morning he stood
up at the foot of my bed
made those familiar awful sounds
threw up what looked like someone’s liver.
He is a dog who eats. Â
Eating is his raison d’etre.
Branches, dandelion puffs, chunks
of wood, dead animals, paper,
plastic bottles, my neighbor’sÂ
compost, sticks of butter
left unattended.
The world is Miles’ savory smorgasbord.
