The old gal

Burial

For now
My dog—uninterested
In life, in chewing,
In thought, in love for me—
Is interested only in burial.

Later, the bone, a white rawhide,
Will be sniffed out and disinterred
And, gnawed and drooled upon,
It will be torn wildly apart
Into wet and white runts,

At which point
I’ll throw them away
With the wasted table scraps
And crumbs of bread

And slowly
My dog will come to me,
What once was there
Now gone.