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Helical spirals spliced into a pit bull-boxer.
Roxy yawns a pink cavernous maw,
teeth sharp as thistle thorns,
then she sleeps, twitches, dreams of chasing
backyard squirrels or a hurled leather bone

and seconds later all this is memory.

Seems my life is always past tense.
Me? A reconstruction of reminiscences
like Roxy's yawn a moment ago—
no longer now, but then.

I am memory, a half-step behind awareness
stretching longer and blunter each decade's breadth

as life shortens between trips to grocery shop
or physician tests.

The dog snores. Did she yawn a while ago or was that yesterday?

Never mind.