The Average Lifespan of a Dog

Now that I’m a dog, sun cuts to
the quick of memory, my bones gnaw me,
my words, like code, click
the hair-scratched floor.
Now, with fifteen years, less or more,
left, will growls strangle their collusions
with reflections in glass? Will the bite
get a taste for streams of curbs? Perhaps,
it’s time to take the man, chained inside,
to the trail that runs behind the house,
where light outlines the wind-thinned
limbs of trees, some beautiful cage.
My life’s run-down the sticks its unleashed,
and its always returned with something else.

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