DOG THAT LAPS HIS WOUNDS

[I am] the dog that laps his wounds.
at times, when allowed,he grits his teeth
and bears blood-thirsty fangs.
He is young but the poem of his life
is drawing to a close.
No one sees that the sunsets
and rises within him.

In the heat of June,
the heavnly blossoms come
without coaxing.
Sometimes, his owner pours salt
into his already open wound.
When this happens, his cry is a lonely one.

When his master calls
his ears perk-up
but remain in place; he is in a rut.
One paw lifts off the porch.
The other itches to move
but doesn’t.

The master calls again but yells.
This dog stands, yawns—
the world is moving restlessly.
Like a child; he is scolded.
Like a whip; the master’s tongue lashes violently.
His words break semi—healed wounds.

One minute he is appreciated.
One minute he is the perfect companion,
he is the crucified beloved.
Then all the sudden,
without warning he is expendable
and the one morning he is ran over—

No one sheds a drop.
He’s the one
who was unseen
lapping his wounds
while enduring the cruel
lashes of the world.