PAD Challenge, Day 14. Prompt: A "none of your business" poem.
the black dog must go, that much
is certain--but when? His ebon
eyes implore, wide as the twinned
cups of tea she pours, hot, dark as
a night without moon or fireflies to
light the way
old, familiar head, nuzzling her lap,
snapping up the bits of bacon falling
from her table, baring his teeth, the
color of ancient ivory, in a grin so sly
she shudders,
turning her face to the wall
still, he will join her later, in bed,
nipping at her ankles, while she
tries, in vain, to sleep--he turns,
turns, turns, and settles himself
squarely upon her chest.
In the morning, so tired, even
draughts of coffee will not wake her,
and she stumbles, from chair to
street to market aisle, and
he dogs her heels, tearing her stockings,
she hears the clicking of his nails until,
and with such relief,
off, to his kennel, away he goes
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