Of the three of us,
only the table matures
into an observable kind of wisdom.
It knows enough
to stay where it is,
but Sally Joy ambles
back into her
affectionate nightfall,
where, if I put my finger
close enough
to the bald spot in her half-empty
bowl, I can hear
the dry, lifeless kernels
purr, maybe once.
And then my wooly honeysuckle
mammoth remembers
and comes back,
in three treat-hunting
minutes or less,
starved by those hyper-
vigilant tundras
and driven to scratching out
the eyes of her food—
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