Dog Logic
       

My stray paws the door to go out to go in
to my bedroom, get fed, and curl into
his pile of rags. He's refused anything
better—shredding dog beds into foam
shards that take me months to gather.
In the mornings his teeth carry favorite
toys into the yard to display them
to the leaves, toys not buried but left
like the lawn ornament the shelter workers
said he had become—why he has those
bug bite scars under his ears, why weeks
went by before he knew my voice so that now
he can't bear for me to be in another room.
When my stray comes to nudge me
with his leather nose, it's not to be scratched
as to be seen—to bait me into a chase,
to pull away just so I can call him back.

Tweet

Copyright © 2022 Aaron Brown All rights reserved
from Call Me Exile
Stephen F. Austin State University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission