Happy B-day, Mike Lambert.
Doggie
Bleak drive, dog fur, dead.
Smeared against the highway asphalt;
I hold back tears, I hold back. I
hold. It lived, I live, it doesn't.
It's not like
hitting a deer; no iris headlight glance,
no warning. It's just there. No blue-green-brown
understanding.
I apologize for your domestication; you don't
belong here, dead on the street, and neither do I (but
here you are!).
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