a poetry e-zine

 

 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Bob Bradshaw
A Dog's Bowl
 
We walked in the park at dusk.
I pointed out shapes in the clouds--
a dog's bowl, a biscuit, a rabbit.
 
Treatments for his cancer
left Roy weakened, withdrawn,
his food bowl barely touched.
 
I buried him in the back yard.
A stutter of dirt my pathetic eulogy.
I'm not a sentimental man
 
but sometimes I sit up
in the middle of the night
with moist eyes, my nose wet.   
 
Grief surprises me at any time
but especially at dusk,  
with the undisturbed sparrows
 
hidden in their branches, the clouds  
with their vague shapes...

 

Copyright 2017  Chantarelle's Notebook