Her dog was her favorite.
He didn’t know what to do
when he sensed another fight:
she with words, he with silence,
husband and wife,
former friends, former lovers.
Her dog was her favorite.
Her dog didn’t know what to do
when she barked at her husband.
He didn’t know what to do either,
except to rub his hands
on his nervous stomach,
trying to keep his distance
from the angry bark and bones
she flung at him from time to time.
Her dog was her favorite.
He wished he was her dog.
© Andy Costello, Reflections, 2008
1 comment:
Ouch.
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