My dad never had much
time for people.
He just never cared much
bullshit, you know.
He moved around a lot
as a kid
and without an anchor or
what could you do but move?
I remember he never had much
time for dogs either...
until the puppy slept on his chest...
until the dog never left his side...
until the friend loved him the way
his past had failed to.
And the harder he pushed that love away,
the faster and stronger it came back.
I think that dog represented
what was left of the good in us.
What little remained of the passion,
of the truth,
of the caring,
of the love.
He gave us salvation for
a bowl of food a day
and a tender pat on the head
in the evening.
We the damned
do solemnly swear
to think for a second
before we jump.
Before we kick over the stool.
Before we squeeze the trigger.
Everytime someone shows us a small kindness.
Everytime someone gives us a chance.
Everytime someone loves us despite our failures.
For the dogs.
And we will mourn.
And shout to the heavens.
And gather rain clouds.
And die for years, and years, and years.
And we will miss that puppy
who slept on our broken hearts,
and healed our fatal wounds,
and saved us from ourselves.
© Copyright 2016 Dino. All rights reserved.
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