A poem by ADLEE HESHMAT.
My pupper isn’t well.
When the balls roll, he does not chase.
Kibble fills his bowl for days
unspoilt. He sleeps between moons and I can’t tell
what fever dreams he awakes from
while I am away
throughout the day.
His stately pleasure dome
(that is my home)
slips between his paws like the sand from dunes
he used to frolic and roam
to the beat of his own drum.
His low-set eyes bear witness
to little Lubomyr Melnyk banging away at Flight of the Bumblebee
and aside that grand piano, a dachshund like him.
With flashing eyes, and floating ears,
shouting beware! Beware!
Despite this, mine’s eyes were already closed with dread,
as I fed what dew
I was prescribed too,
as we both drunk the milk of paradise.
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