Monday, January 15

Today's offering. In need of a title, perhaps.

For months, he'd been pulling a bag along
with him, his new-found friend

at first it grew slowly, and then,
after a while, accelerated, growing
until it was cutting off
the lifeline.
Left him to dangle

shuffling in his bed –
slim cuttings of soft paper
bundled into a ball, a
cocoon, a coffin already made.
I remember

the days we didn't need
to worry about bulldog
clips on the cage, because
he wasn't going to
crawl up the chimney, not today,
and cleaning would only disturb.

I remember holding him, a baby
again awkward in my hands,
massaging the fur, slowly, so
slowly, circling, urging him
to warm up.

We passed him between us, his
last minutes, seconds, split
into a myriad of diamonds the size
of the last of his eye. My turn;

I took him to the radiator,
kneeled down, nudged him,
waiting for him to wake up, warm up,
stop pretending to give up.


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