A Dog’s Life

He clings to substance of his
dreams, those sure things
he’s always been aware of
the tried and true assure
him of surcease; scent
of this duvet yields better
memories than shopping
bags he usually sleeps on
but even it feels incomplete.

He tries to figure it but fails
and retreats – something’s
missing where he knows it
should have been in scent
with signature so fragrant
pure there is no chance of
sleep; who would leave a
promise unsecure like this
he thinks and where is she.

He rises, sighs and asks to
go outside; a dog’s life is all
about doors he reflects to an
image in his mind which he
thought lived in the sheen of
the glass panel – she was always
there, more or less, and when
he sorely needed it she’d pick
him up and gladly cuddle him.
© 27 August 2009, I. D. Carswell