is mailing it in today,
his half-assed ruff
a far cry from his
usual barrage of
WO-WO-WO-WO-
WOOFF!!!
when his teeth
are keenly bared,
sharpened by the
years of crunchy bits,
his tongue a hanging
sock that’s soaked
in drool,
and we’ve been
grateful
for the window
that keeps him in,
on his human’s
upholstered couch,
intimidating
any who venture near,
who worry he
might smash right through
the glass, devour the flesh
right off their bones,
ones he’d calmy
chew
come the slaughter’s
epilogue
but not today,
his head barely
lifting from his
post, where his daily
sentry duties
have kept the neighbours
on their toes,
literally—
a ballerina’s step
to check the mail,
a soft and trepid
creeping to the car,
an exhalation
once they’ve locked
themselves inside,
repeating the
scenario
but in reverse,
when they've returned
to their driveway
with a gulp,
but for us, on our
pleasant constitutional,
the one he normally
interrupts,
we worry that he’s
sick, that decrepitude
and wear
have settled in,
that we won’t
know what to do
come his passing,
won’t know what to
speak of
when the birds are
melancholic,
when the air
is dense with sweat, the
clouds a brim of black
before they spot us,
walking ‘round the bend,
a flash and peal
of fury to be unleashed,
one that scares us
shitless, warns
us to keep our distance.
Andreas Gripp
August 22, 2023
RF Image