Unleashed, it roams like a great, grieving dog,
yellowed with age.  It clatters down, eyes those
who approach and warns them away.  I know

when it's had its full of grief and murmur that I
am its owner again. It trots, slow beside me,
backward glances.  Nudges my hand, before it runs

charging a squirrel up a tree.  I can chain it
and it will strain, whimpering for my bed, or let it roam,
be torn to shreds, free to sing the sweetest songs.
Back to the
list of poems