Kafka’s coat shone
he’d put on angel’s finery.
As the day progressed his fur
grew luminous, gammy eyes cleared,
he sat proudly and gazed out the window
at an ancient garden & mountains called.
He made it through the Sunday Night Movie.
Soon after, Kafka coughs and begins to journey on.
I go over and don’t bother about the blood he’s coughed
but hold his chin and stroke his head.
He growls, stretches and barks
softly, playfully like a puppy waking.
His eyes are running, jumping dog
making himself comfortable on beach towels,
wandering dazed to on-heat dogs’ whisky nights
or sitting in the front seat behind the steering wheel
roaming city streets, copping it sweet from ferocious cars.
As smart as they come, the best of dogs,
he is running down a mountain trail
and he’s gone.