Most days that summer your old dog came up,
in the searing heat, with a failing heart,
from your place, the half-mile uphill to mine―
up the steep rise, past the pastured goats, on
the buggy trail that swerves through blueberries.
As you pointed out, The Odyssey
is full of tears, everyone weeping
to find and lose and find each other again.
Spent, he struggled the last two hundred yards,
ears low, chest heaving. Hearing
the jangling of his tags I knew the gods
had chosen me to praise him for his journey,
offer food and water, a place to sleep.
TODAY IN SLATE
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A Little Bit Softer Now, a Little Bit Softer Now …
The sad, gradual decline of the fade-out in popular music.