by Miriam Stanley

Someone picked you up.
They did not even ask.
They were begging to be bitten.

You watched them replace your dishes.
And stared at the food.
Unaware of The Big Change, your master’s death,
the future move from the house.
You peed in the litter box,
watched them pack up blankets and a notebook.
You knew what
the blankets were for, and
saw the book the old man always
carried. Some woman cried, staring
at the pages; she
sat back down....

You never saw anyone
here, it was just you and
The Boss.
It was always a darkened room,
and cluttered desk.
Muffling carpet.
only the sound
of T.V.