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Lost Dog
Photo by Santa Cruz Poet, Robert Sward


Lost Dog

It's just getting dark, fog drifting in,
damp grasses fragrant with anise and mint,
and though I call his name until my voice cracks,
there's no faint tinkling of tag against collar,
no sleek black silhouette with tall ears
rushing towards me through the wild radish.

As it turns out, he's trotted home,
tracing the route of his trusty urine.
Now he sprawls on the deep red rug,
not dead, not stolen by a car on West Cliff Road

Every time I look at him, the wide head
resting on outstretched paws,
joy does another lap around the racetrack
of my heart. Even in sleep
when I turned over to ease my bad hip,
I'm suffused with contentment.

If I could lose him like this every day
I'd be the happiest woman alive.


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