02 Nov
Every night for seven years,
he kept his right hand above the spread
because a happy pit bull would nestle
next to him. He required his right hand uncovered
to scratch her behind the ears until snores of
contentedness would thrum the room mixed with his.
The routine came to a sorry end when
life happened with its inevitable change.
He still sleeps with his right hand free,
dreaming of a ghostly dog under it.

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Posted by on November 2, 2021 in Poetry


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