The dog did dream
as he lay down
a heavy sleep.
No noise no sound.
The comandante
had poured an ale
to quench the thirst
that made him pale.
But not the music
of the box
nor gifted craft
of love not lost
could shake his bone
that set like fire
of steal and meat
and rage and pyre.
Although the ale did
quench at first,
his soul did not
return from worse.
A stolen love had
played its part
and with it came
a stone of heart.
The dog awoke to feel
the cold
buried deep
beneath the bone.
But do not pity
his soul long
his body of black
was made in Hong Kong.
