No hollowed out haunch, no alligatored spine
No faltering limbs plunging his face to the floor
No failing appetite staring at the water
No, in his dream, he is muscular and sure
His front paws twitch because somewhere he has caught a bird
His back legs pulse because somewhere they push him hard
like a runner coming out of the blocks.
His whiskers flutter as he responds one last time
to orphic blue jays that dive and scream.
Spaulding sleeps now. His breaths, so small, rise and fall
above the mound that is the growth in his abdomen.
Sleep, Spauld, sleep. We pray to God your soul to keep.
If you die before you wake, then that is a great gift He has made.