Song for late March, sung from a dog

There was no way we could all live forever. My dog knew that by the way she looked at me when she folded back into a crease on the couch and smacked her lips; that was it right there, the essence of the moment and passing of time, the dog curling in on herself clockwise, checking the boundaries, securing the edges. We settled in for a nap, and woke two years later, the odd passage of time on 78 RPMs, a dog’s life.



Categories: prose, writing

Tags: , , , , ,

6 replies

  1. I know poetry when I see it, even when it looks like prose. I may even like it better that way.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. This is gorgeous, and what a stunning and original metaphor, the 78.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. ah, the 78! that is a whole other speed indeed –

    Liked by 1 person

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