The wolf at the door
my mother used to say.
Are you keeping him
away? I wasn’t.

He remained in the yard
to circle on a chain.
Most nights sniffing and
scratching and carrying on.

A cocked eye stared out
as I reassured myself he
couldn’t get in. He’s kept
by my own terrible hand.

I never did get out much.
Never could afford more.
He prowled my yard and
howled inside my heart.

####

Poet’s Notes:

This has been published out of order.
It was originally sent on Sep 16 via email distribution.

The original paper draft is below.
If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment (further) below.

new-doc-127_1

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