White fox by Kathleen Jennings (not a puppy)

For whatever reason, I’ve been writing poetry lately.

I’m finding it a good way to work stuff out of my head and also to limber up the writing muscles before I hit the prose.

Crap at finding titles, though.





He finishes with

How are you?

every time.



I make the mistake

of thinking the question

means something.


But really

I know it’s just the

thing he’s picked up

from watching

the humans.


That he’s trying,

but misses the point

of the exchange

which is listening

and remembering.



I remind myself to

feel as if I’m

talking to an

enthusiastic, clueless,



I’ve met on the street.


I give him a pat

then walk away.


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