Hour 11; dog-poem.

It must be the rutting season

because I haven’t seen you in ages,

and you have that stretched-thin look you get

when running with a new bitch.


I waited.


Hours, sometimes days, I waited,

a broken-heart cliché,

phone in hand, heart in my mouth

turning to rocks and ashes.


Then I stopped.


I remembered who I was, like Rudyard Kipling said:
“The best ones don’t wait for anyone.”

I put down the phone, slipped off my shoes,

and went to howl at the moon.

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