One sound could rouse that dog
from the deepest sleep anywhere in her home.
The spinning of the popcorn maker,
the slightest shifting of the kernels.
She would spring awake, leap to attention
three feet away from anywhere in the house.
Her attention rapt, a small pool of drool growing
as she watched and waited,
knowing
that there would be a small portion set aside for her.
Unseasoned
A kernel at a time
Tossed and caught from her own metal bowl.
Now
She is gone.
The kernels pop and spin
in the silence created
by a lack of Labradoorial thunder down the stairs
and when it’s time to dispense the bowls
there’s always
one unseasoned bowl
too much.
I wrote this poem when missing my dog, of course. But having been studying what makes a poem, I’m not terribly pleased with it. The words aren’t sonorous, don’t have an internal consistency of sound to reinforce the mood. The first sentence doesn’t flow with stresses and their absence the way a good poem should. Writing is rewriting, and poetry is no different.