The dogs of my childhood
are growing old.
They lounge on theraputic beds,
their ragged tongues waving.
The dogs of my childhood
spend their days under trees
and in garages and stretched on kitchen floors,
their arthritic limbs twitching
in memories of the teddy bears they tore,
their noses quivering with steaks stolen
right off the grill.
The dogs of my childhood
are lifted laboriously onto their feet
and drag their bent backs around the block,
The dogs of my childhood are grey at the noses,
their breath fetid,
The dogs of my childhood
show smiles of rotted teeth, drool dribbles
onto their smelly beds,
The dogs of my childhood
sleep noisily,
exhaling great sighs
into the night.
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1 comment:
Tess, I loved reading your poems. I could say a lot about them, but one thing jumps out: your economy in the use of words. You 'spend' words with great care, as if they were gold, which they are, and which you are.
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