by Peter Peteet

Of Buzzards balancing
Tipping between thermals
They are at peace
In death duty
Which comes, like a scent on the wind
And cuts the mirth
The headless dog between the rails
Collar smashed but readable
My throat raw as the wet wind
Calling your number
Such hurt shock was in your reply
“I gave that dog away
You’d think he could have called to say
He didn’t have the dog anymore”
He called me then
Asked where the body was
He was at work
The information over he then said
“Thank you
She was a fine dog”
I am so awake

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