His bark is like a clogging drain
the scent of food will make him drool.
some folk may say, just one old dog,
but he’s much more, he’s Mr cool.
Be gentle when you stroke him,
the slightest touch might overwhelm.
Make light the sweet endearment,
for pride is master of his realm
Walk slowly, match his weary step
The instinct burns to keep you safe,
commands his presence by your side.
pours oil on fragile bones that chafe
Be quick to catch him should he fall
age merely fodder for contempt
his eyes will overflow with shame
to sprawl the very last thing meant
Lean close to whisper cheek to jowl,
of battle wounds, of lightening speed.
White tennis balls and canine brawls,
a coat enmeshed with sticky seed
But in the end death makes a claim
and you will have to say goodbye
Pay what is due for years of love.
Life ends and heartache makes us cry.
Roan Jan.2009
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