Red Dog

30 06 2014


There was fire in him somewhere

that she had never seen lit before.


He would find them now in streetlight flickerings

and in the warmness of half-closed bins. He

would hear them crow behind fastened, tired houses.

He was committed to the thought of the fox.


In the summer she’d have to keep bacon fat

to one side and freeze fishheads. Order books,

frame pictures. For him, leave warmed milk, bread.



She hoped she wouldn’t have to tell him

it might not have been a fox

that flared out from behind the shed yesterday

and erupted into the photonia.


She watched him from the window watching spaces

leaned in closer to his mittened paws and hungry gaze.

He shivered, wrenched his hat down,

slumped again upon his elbows. Tried to stifle his yawn.


Her breath made a faint figure on the glass. It was

past bedtime when she carried him indoors.




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