Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter

Friday, February 06, 2004

Someone For Agnes

After ten years she sits
beneath a desk partition
that holds a telephone,
an appointment book,
a rolodex page dogeared
with the name and number
of the local vet.
Day after day she's there
near the source of communication
as if understanding the one-sided
conversations that sometimes
mentions her by name.
It's then that with ears perked,
the slow wag of a tail, one paw
after the other, she emerges from
shaded sanctuary, lifting
just her head; to move with more
energy would surely prove
too painful now. Day after day
the wait is for the one-sided
to change everything, the wait
is in vain, grows more tired,
perpetual, listless there, now
barely able to move, now fed
by hand, now the merciful has
been called for Agnes, and now
with the few final breaths,
rests painless forever under
a full moon.

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