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Doggerel
The eyes would rather not engage the world.
Cotton mouth, parched, and aware of a thirst.
The muscles, lobbying to remain curled.
Feet swing to the floor, prepared for the worst.
Stiffness escapes in most audible groans.
Shuffling, a zombie, a gruesome undead.
Articulating two hundred plus bones
Fills the old body with deep sense of dread.
Missy don’t care or she knows how to cure;
Calling me upward and into the day.
The life of a dog, so simple and pure:
There’s time to rest, but it’s now time to play.
First cup of coffee; I just might survive.
Greet the day boldly, alert and alive.
Copyright ©
Jeff Kyser
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