like an October sunset maroon pools
under the breakfast table
when Father reaches for his morning coffee
and burns his hand
on the glass pot. Mother cut herself
when she sliced the ham
but Rover only laps up the blood to get
the taste of dry kibble
off of his tongue—even he things that this
is savage,
the same beast who brought a dead bird to the kitchen
and thought of nothing more than a pat on the head.
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