Friday, November 11, 2016

A Second Poem

11/10 A natural death?

this is the hardest hour as the evening descends like a coat, 
to not go out to call my hound home,
to stay with my soup
to leave him out where he has wanted to go
to die.
I carried him home once this morning
not able to stand his frozen stance
hesitating on his quivering hind legs
not circling down
not coming home. 
He slept hard, but
this afternoon he stood at the door
and i let him out.
he bent to the river path.

(He was born on the river, son of a plot hound and who knows dad,
elegant mutt, sitting with legs crossed in front, a
Cary Grant, and the best ever with kids.)

I’m leaving the outside light on,
I hate to think coyotes might roam,
please no,
It’s cold tonight, will hyperthermia speed him away?
I always imagine my self following this road
when I’m old, stiff, unable to eat,
taking off ever so slow, but full of intent and a pull from another domain,
curling into the leaf litter,
and tucking down close.
I’ll probably fail to stay
hobbling home, until I can’t manage the stairs
as Mojo has these past two days. But today he was

Today I’m letting him go.

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