My dog gave up coffee for Lent,
experienced withdrawal with blinding
headaches. I gave him a dog coat
for his walk at the lake. It was below
freezing. His exhaled breath
like smoke signals for ancestors
in dirt-black forests.
My dog was concerned about
the rash and bumps on my face.
He nursed me with glorious
bronze eyes, cooked breakfast
& washed the dishes.
My dog never speaks
under his breath or arches eyebrows
like what I say doesn’t matter.
He fails to understands all the ado
about peace & good will.
He would lick everyone
he meets if they would allow
such a thing to happen.
All he expects in return
is a big white bone.
John Dorroh likes to travel. He routinely ends up in other peoples’ kitchens sharing culinary tidbits and tall tales. Six of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net. Hundreds of others have appeared in journals such as River Heron, Feral, Kissing Dynamite, North of Oxford, and Penstrickin. He’s had two poetry chapbooks published and a book of micro-fiction. He lives in Illinois close to St. Louis.