Old dogs

The tongue flaps stupidly like an eager dog
On my right worn shoe where the glue gave way
It scoops the dying snow of march in eager gulping gasps
As I drag the slush from my driveway

Everything has an animus and my dogs are tired
Worn too long for work but trudging along gamely
Lustily sucking the snow into cold water against the toe of my sock

Till I kick them off again to change into something dry

I should throw them away
But it’s hard to let go of habits that have seen one through so many miles


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