Dogs at the end of the world


Day 5. Prompt: write a self-destruct poem.


My dogs don’t care about the tweets.

Instead they sleep, the warmth of
their soft bodies curled and coiled
or stretched into impossibly long lines,
heads resting on carpets or blankets,
but ready always for the promise of treats
if we should even think of approaching the kitchen
during nap time.

To them the TV news is sound,
the blathering of self-important humans
with their fingers on the buttons reduced
to white noise. To static.

They don’t know war, or countries,
or creed, or intersectionality.
They have no gods or devils,
although, when awake,
they do take the utmost pleasure
in the crunch of dried leaves under their feet
and the magic of mud puddles.

At the end of the world, they sleep,
dreaming of squirrels slow enough to catch,
running through the wet grass,
long hikes in the deep woods,
and chickens in the pot.

What do you think?

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