grovel

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there’s this sound.

it pops and crackles and
makes this restless hound
desert the ground.

the wafting of fumes from a familiar package is like
love.
four dollars and ninety-five cents of love.

I watch my waiter,
fumbling to retrieve a recorded message from
pocket packed with treats.

looking up, panting blindly
at my master, who holds my coveted prize
balled up in his burly hand.





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