Has it been a year? Scanning the pasture
from the kitchen sink, I don’t see your
swayed back. A sideways pause at my desk
staring out the north window to check
the runs; there’s an old donkey in yours.
Walking my tea to the back porch at dusk,
the colors aren’t flickering in your tail.
The sun isn’t setting softly on your ears.
You’re still not here. It’s a time-worn habit so
I keep checking. But for a sense that you might
be standing just back of me, your whiskers not
quite tickling my shoulder. I still don’t miss you.
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