Bob.
When a car slows or seems to stop
before the curve into our drive,
Bob hurtles to the window,
scrambles to the sill
in a slurry of cushions.
A car-door slams,
an engine accelerates,
and he turns, embarrassed;
his head lolling,
he slides through cushions
to nuzzle my toes.
I stroke his throat
and scratch between his ears.
He spirals down upon himself
with little moans
and groans of pleasure.
The fire crackles,
the clock ticks,
I read my book.
Bob sleeps.
Who will scratch between my ears
to alleviate my sense of loss?
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