Time For That Living Will

in Poetry

I love our current dog, Coda. But that picture above is me with the best dog that ever was, that ever will  be. The T-Bone.

According to the canine stir we busted him out of, he was all of seven months old and already twice a recidivist. On his jacket his name was spelled Tea-Bone. Cause enough, I was quick to reckon, to produce a behavioral misdemeanor or two. And he was hand shy. Some ass-hole had swiped at him. But I spied that it hadn’t broken his sprit.

It took but a bit of convincing to get SNZ to approved parole and we rolled out of that k-9 hoosegow to run, within the week, along the big city beach. We both worked at home, and set our own hours, so T-bone et al would sunrise at lake Michigan. We averaged about 300 days a year there. Only Windy City weather severe enough to make national news could keep us away.

And T-Bone was trained to walk off lease in our neighborhood, about a mile from that lake. And making the local rounds I’d ruminate on some idiocy like; (a mass for faith in peer pressure)…a phrase turn I was walking about with some early fall and coming holiday season. Peer…a noun verb… see, be seen similarly,

T-Bone never stop being hand shy. But he had a great, if short life. He got sick at six, was misdiagnosed for months. When he turned seven we learned he had inoperable stomach cancer.

T-Bone’s death broke my heart, and I pondered breaking a veterinary bone or two. On advice from my attorney, that being Snz, I was advised that such action would be seen as more than a misdemeanor.

Time For That Living Will

This simple sample
this wounded turn
a cold up
to nail it warm
a scribble in a
sweater necessary
to report spring’s
twin,
in full inverse
lowers my appreciation
a degree or two
each day
as I now view
sequel as
foreshadow

and when bright lights
artificial the coming long
nights

(a mass for faith in peer
pressure)

I string along with
the blink and the
glow

and tinsel
and toast
and cheer
homes that
hum electric
churning gigawatts
to terminal,
with that heavy static
smell of life support

I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.

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