I have places to go but don’t

 

I have places to go but don’t

By the hissing fire I’m sitting
in a soft green chair with Mickey
who is dying, curled against my feet.
My fingers rub his neck still warm,
his ribs still rising slowly, falling,
his fur stringy and soft.

On his liver, a lesion grows.
In his blood, ammonia builds.
Muscles weaken. No appetite,
slowly for weeks he’s been starving.
I carry him in his little donut bed.
Some day soon, maybe today,
his heart will stop.

Mickey never complains.
That’s the nature of dogs about pain.
Blues yodel, yes, he’ll join the chorus
when the siren calls
but not today.

In the fireplace scraps of redwood siding
torn from my house after 80 years,
attacked by sun, rain, insect until
finally succumbing, broken down,
burn now hot, fast, bright.

Mickey still breathes. I sit.
I have things to do,
places to go but don’t.

…..

First published in Williwaw Journal
Thank you Rachel Barton, editor