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Michael Robins
Where Dogs Like Flowers Play
The grown man cries despite the radio, the sun & moon, just this morning when his daughter spooned peanut butter for the dog. Those speckled paws, those feet that smell like Cheetos, but why pretend I’m not the one drugged & the truth a minus sign, the absence & lack, believing my books would somehow make this easier: another poem of heartache, a song best shared on the final, cruel drive. Each of us off to a land called Meadow, a cloud named Someday, a last goodbye christened Gratitude. So much daylight in a silver bowl, clean & dry, put away until next time & here, my god, these empty blankets.