Saturday, January 9, 2022

I will do my part by writing poems.

Blue will do his part by dying.

Blue is our dog.

He may be dying.

The vets aren't sure.

What follows is a poem a day for the rest of his life.

It will be cheesy and overwrought and

I won't revise any entries after the day they're written

and I'm aware of Marley and Me and all the cheesy

overwrought writings about dying dogs and if you

decide this effort is beneath you then you

can fuck off.

Blue is our dog.

I don't normally tell strangers to fuck off.

It's not a funny thing to say, nor a risqué thing to say

but it is honest

because Blue may be dying

and Blue is our dog.

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