Death Must Have a Dog

 
Tales were told this morning; the usual loggerhead-fables,
but today I believe in my own stories.
I take dogs through the same woods, over the same field
as it rains a cold sky's rain.
I stand on the newly wet grass as its scent pours
upwards to the thick heavens and my nose.
I point my chin at the sobbing welkin
and as the icy-drops explode on my face, neck and chest
I know that there would be no better time
than right now
to be intercepted by death's skinless fist
in hope that I can take a last impression to eternity,
but, his bony fingers will only come when I'm choking
on the stench of my own urine, and the dogs,
my poor, wet dogs, are homeless without me.