He doesn't write poems.
Doesn't write anything for that matter.
He beholds the sunrise in as much awe as I do
and appears just as wistful at sunset.
He enjoys a long walk in the morning,
more so if it has rained the previous night.
He listens to the birds keenly,
sometimes chases them off his property
I read some of my unsure verses to him.
Those I'm convinced, I leave for my poet friends.
He seems to doze off in agreement,
though sometimes barks for a change of rhyme.
My dog must have been a poet some birth.
Why else would he be put through this ordeal otherwise?
Other than perhaps (for) poetic justice.
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