Poem July 20

Buster Gets a Bath

When I pick him up
and tilt to the bathtub
he falls limp with shock
This cannot be. . . .

Then it’s dark thoughts
from dark eyes, the dog
I love so much hates me
A torture worse than death.

All sudsy now, scent of clover
and dead leaves washed away
with lavender and lemon.
How could you?

The sprayer — that cobra of doom
strikes again and again.
Even if it feels good
I’ll never say so.

After a brisk towel rub
he springs all over the house
a hero home from the war
The bath? It was my idea.

— Ashley Memory

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