To the Ugly, Old Dog

The years have given
you warts, 
that is why nobody wants
to touch your head. 
I remember
when you used
to bite at things
real and begged
for my hand.
Now, you sneer
at shadows,
and whimper 
from underneath
the bed. 

And to be unseen
is the only gift


An edited version of a poem originally published in the September issue of The Paperbook Collective.

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