Scratches on the Door

When you get home,
I crawl to you
the way hungry dogs do.

You slump on my shoulder
as though you’ve
given all hope to

create a future
out of the debris
of our past.

I let you rest there,
feed off body heat as
only needy mammals can.

It wasn’t even twilight when
you told me you loved me.

I’ve been praying
these gods all night,
desperate for sun light,

hopeful the dark
may receded enough
that I can recognize
the man I love.

Part of me is
still that tramp
sniffing around
your front door,
waiting for a
handout and
familiar scent.

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