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At this moment,
Tom is either
Mr. Cook, second grade teacher,
or God.

In the dust of the park,
five dogs sit tightly around Tom,
who is standing,
holding a dried chicken chip,
as if it were a gold medallion.

Pick me, pick me, pick me,
they seem to be saying,
like second graders,
waving their bare arms in the air.

If I sit up the straightest,
he will give it to me,
they seem to be saying,
noses held high,
backs straight,
tails up, wagging wildly.

Or perhaps they are worshipping,
praying with all their might
to the tall guy
who holds the answer to everything.

The dog park:
I’m not sure
if it’s elementary school
or church.


Bruce says: “Liked this a lot.  But all four aboard think you should drop the last stanza.”
(Bruce lives on a trimaran; he and his wife had guests aboard)

I agree with Bruce and friends.  Do you?

A gang at the dog park…


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