This is just poetry. It won't save you, but it may locate you so that a rescue party can be sent out. — Dean Blehert

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

To An Old Friend

I stroke his head. His tail wags wildly,
pink tongue flicking up at me, politely
begging to touch my face. Yesteray
he met a baby bird that puffed up its feathers
in fear before his solemn curiosity.
When I dawdle too long before our walk,
he talks to me, a deep sweet questioning lilt.

In Iraq, Afghanistan, Sudan
men slaughter each other. At home lies
burrow termite tunnels beneath social smiles.
Old dog, it is outrageous, it is intolerable,
your sweetness.

Dean Blehert
Blogs: (short poems) (essays and longer poems)
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