Buford. Quiet Time. Prayers.

The spirit lays
next to the cat scratched couch.
80 pounds tipped on his side,
legs extended, paw pads pudgy.

He will shed more evidence
into the worn traffic lane
of carpet fibers.
I pray as I step over Dog.

Blood hounding me,
I wish the spirit of canine
would come and lick
my dry cracked skin.

I wouldn’t pull away
this time, but scratch
beneath his collar line.
Eyes beneath droopy lids,

contact mine to validate
we are both dog tired.
I thank God for Dog,
and we both sniff the air.


  1. Thank you, Buford!

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