Tuesday, September 06, 2016

Another small dog poem

We breathe the same fresh air,
my dog and I, or breathe it stale;
we sigh the same, the difference
only being in the size of sighs;
we walk the same hard road, the
road is ours, not his or mine;
and when I take a nap, and on the
couch lie long, he lies beside, and
fits himself behind my knees,
warming me, or maybe I warm him. 
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