love is an old dead dog
buried in the corner of someone's backyard
a vague shape along the street
in the pensioner's fog
was it a he or she maybe neither
shame it had to be put down
for biting that kid
or going mad with rabies
or so they could go on vacation
and would not have to care
if the bones are dug up in eleven,
a hundred, three thousand twelve years
there will be no loyal friend
no companion
nothing wanting to be fed or scratched
only an old dead dog
that's all love really is