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It seems he has come to his end
Squashed by the wheels that spun over him
They say his better days
lay at his toes
No one now turns a page to see or disclose

No longer do his words go pop
Now that he can no longer hop
It's as it is I suppose
For the dead poet squashed on the road

The analytical is now over
Nothing left but for the spirits to hover
While not a (Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road)
Time has now come for the Yellow Brick Toad

Ribbit . . . . Ribbit . . . Ribbit

. . . . .  Ribbit . . . . Ribbit . . . .

Someday everyone

has to croak .

. . . . . . . . . . RIBBIT . . . . . . . .
The hounds of Nbucketville
howl at the full moon's folly
While feral cats walk the fence
short of their own immortality
They write lines upon the sand
And call it perfunctorality
Actually it is nothing more short than their own taste of banality
. . . banality
. . . banality
. . . banality
. . . banality
people are friends
to the bone
no human can drown,
but they can turn
from a solid to a liquid,
whose name is written on water,
whose laying facedown
on the topsoil.

lovely thunder today,
good weather for an airstrike,
the road is a gray tape
over magnetic fields,
too fragile to walk on,
a sudden Manhattan of the mind:
all of the buildings
are time passing fragments
in spawned harbinger,
accidently reacting like
a stream with bright fish
below the waste.
Hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.
******* surround me and send me into a rage.
Lonesome soul sinking in the mire.
Too tired to fight, I might need a drink.
In AA there is a saying, Don't get too hungry, angry, lonely or tired or H.A.L.T
We have become almost as one,
he reads my moods, knows when
I am not feeling well and shows
his concern.

Even in rest he keeps an eye on me.
As a shadow, he follows me.
From room to room, on outdoor
walks, by my side, content, alert.

When I return home, he is always
there standing sentry by the door,
greeting me excitedly not unlike a
human child on Christmas morn.  

He lives his life only to be close
to me. Sleeps peacefully all night
on his bed, right next to mine.
Loyal is inadequate to explain his

Going on ten years of nearly 24/7
days a week companionship, he
understands most of what I say
to him, even my subtle hand gestures
of beckoning or command bring
his eager compliance.

Like me he has grown grey of muzzle
and brow, we are limping and aging
together now. He still has his moments
of Puppy like behavior, brief flashes of
his once inexhaustible abundant youth,
tempered now just as mine has too.

He loves me with his expressive brown
eyes and I see it plain as a sunrise of a
new day. His pace and behavior tell me
that our time together is growing short.
This reality does so pain my heart
If there is a God, does he or she send us
dogs to fill the space and companionship
of lost human love? I wonder and think
perhaps that is so.

For Tucker my going on ten-year-old Boxer
dog friend and companion.
Some like to live on the edge
Find it exhilarating
Makes them feel alive

Some live in fear
Dread the coming days
Would rather sheds tears
Than wade through the haze

Those who edge are ledge lodgers
Must always be on spot
or over the edge they'll drop

The fear mongrels are like rats
They scatter when revealed
But live another day to come to bat
Treat your heart just like a treasure, disdain with distance
Let no one near something so fragile and pure.
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