The Dog
He’s gone, my leader. Turned into a bird or some other uncatchable thing. The world without him tastes like a thrown stick. I don’t know what to do.
I take a running step & stop: there’s no tug on my collar, no comforting rebuke. I keep trying to call his name & get the same old howl.
This week at Poetry Thursday, again the prompt was ekphrasis, but with a prosopopoeic twist: to speak from within the work of art.
Dave Bonta
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