At Feet Of Dogs by Ivan Donn Carswell
At my feet the lapdogs of desire,
I wont greet their fawning, least not yet,
their foul breath would shrink a haemorroid,
perhaps Iâ€™ll feed them oats with garlic
instead. I fed their need for family,
I recognised each one and said
I loved them. Unconditionally.
Was I wrong? I cannot say they loved me back.
If love is deference then Iâ€™m remiss,
Iâ€™ve missed the true relationship;
I am adrift amid liaisons way beyond
my understanding. A long and tortured
time ago I thought I knew the difference,
thatâ€™s what my conscience said, and now
the same and chequered values lie
just trampled in the dust at feet of dogs
along with bleak and sad insane bequests.
Â© I.D. Carswell