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.
Five thirty in the morning he stood
up at the foot of my bed
made those familiar awful sounds
threw up what looked like someoneâ€™s liver.
He is a dog who eats. Â
Eating is his raison dâ€™etre.
Branches, dandelion puffs, chunks
of wood, dead animals, paper,
plastic bottles, my neighborâ€™sÂ
compost, sticks of butter
The world is Milesâ€™ savory smorgasbord.