RICH FURMAN
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The Last Dog

sprawled on the couch
he is a hacking old man

without words, maybe dementia,
but at only ten?

The other one succumbed to cancer,
a year and a half battle,

much more fight
than we could have hoped.

These hours I spend alone,
late at night, everyone asleep,

death sits in the corner
of the leather loveseat.

He watches me as my dog once did,
attentive, silent, patient.

He took her without a blink.
He eats the leftovers from my fridge,

drinks the good tequila,
watching, waiting, sipping.

Summer is over and fall
will last only two days.