On the mantle
in a carved wooden box,
beneath your worn collar
scratched tags
and a little puppet, of you
made by a young girl, long ago
are your ashes.

They arrived yesterday.
You were delivered home
one last time.

All your adventurous, boring
heart-thumping, tail-wagging, yard-rolling days
burned down and held fast.

Now you sit, without command
like a broken clock
that stares blankly as the sun crosses the sky.

Since you’ve left
a little cloud
has entered the emptiness
trying to take your place.

Soft but cool
this curious cumulus
follows me around

(like that terrifying birthday balloon
that caught on your foot
and chased you wherever you went)

fogs my view
lays its misty-grayness on my knee.

But you and I
we were friends for life
Measured, in years, by sevens.

Now, the little cloud and I are left
to measure hours, alone
without you.

Tamlyn and Duke