ManicDDaily

Encylopedic (Post)

I wrote, as a child,
to my dead dog.
There is something about death that outweighs even
not knowing how to read,
meaning that delivery seemed a bigger issue
than comprehension.

I posted my letter at last
in the “D” section of my Junior Britannica,
though her name began with “C”.

This was not (at least not consciously)
because D stood for Death.
I wished for some Dog Heaven (with a post office)
where any passing Canine (drat)
might pass on a missive
of sore missing.

I never opened that Junior Britannica again,
though honestly, I’m not sure I’d ever opened it before then–
it was a single purpose
Britannica, a dead dog letter office.

Still, I cherish its cherry spine
more than any Santa’s nose
or maraschino memory.
There could be worse fates.

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Drafty poem for Magpie Tales hosted by Tess Kincaid.  Tess posts a photo prompt each week, and the above pic is her prompt.  (All rights reserved by copyright holder).

I’ve written of this subject before; on one level, I apologize; on another, I note that it’s the kind of thing that sticks with you.  (I’ve edited enjambment since posting.)