And Don’t Call Me Shirley

I am a dog chasing cars.

Their supply, to me, is infinite,

Their color, their sheen irresistible,

Their speed infectious,

Their menace unknown.

How well I distract myself from living!

But, surely, a dog should run?

Should chase the wind

With all of God’s intended verve

And lack of care?

I ask you, then

Did God intend

For blood and fur

To stain the road red

And bake

In the hot sun?

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