Another Thought on Dogs

One of the most interesting things about our trip to Breck was the absence of Cleo, Grammy and Granddaddy's slobbery black lab. Cleo was a remarkably good natured pup - she even let Wrig play with her tail - and her presence provided a rhythm to the day: Cleo's evening walk was sorely missed. Throughout the trip, we kept finding things left behind (in Cleo's wake, as it were), so I guess you could call the following a "found poem."

Leftovers

I keep stumbling over this
dog shaped hole
which will not be filled
by these stray tennis balls,
dry as a bone,
that half empty bag of kibble
gathering dust,
or the single black hair
which I cannot brush from my sleeve.