You
see that lead that leads to his cold hand?
It zizzes
in and out of the roll he holds
and
never drops. No freedom; that he withholds.
He
says it’s safer. It’s not. I’ve been damned
to
staying leashed for life, allowed to trot
beside
him, short-legged, chained, feeling my life
isn’t
my own. It’s more I’m like his wife,
obedient,
cheerful; in looks, a dumpy blot
on
the landscape. Inside is raging fire. It’s wild
to
splatter the mud-deep fields under my paws,
to
catch the jolt and splosh of it in my claws
raking
the sticky earth. All’s outwardly mild,
much
pant and snort on the path, but still un-free,
reined
in. Snuffle and tug are all I’ve got
to
let him know that I still care – a lot.
I’ll
not be pulling away. He’s old, you see.
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