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  • this week I was
    cycled through carbon steel
    gnashing gnashing
    jaws.

    Dead bodies all over my
    pretty yard. Fluffy white
    feathers
    stained red with blood.
    A big, goofy dog
    who was just playing,
    who was just too big,
    looking at me from the truck window,
    tail wagging, ever smiling,
    as he was driven away.
    Me in the driveway,
    broken hearted, watching him go
    as a few stray feathers floated by in the dead quiet breeze.
    My daughter, two days shy of 7, hands me
    a sheet of blue construction paper.
    A happy dog and some flowers with his name
    mispelled
    on top.
    I'm crushed.

    All week, coming up short
    drowning, literally, and a
    broken old stiff body refusing to do what I ask.
    ACE bandage, ice, meds and refusal to
    quit hurts.
    I hurt.

    I have been given too much information.
    Handed too much to handle.
    Pushed about as far as I can go.

    And I can do no less than lift
    my head,
    get up, though my body and heart
    shamelessly beg me to stay down today,
    and go plant some flowers.
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