“A Poet”

On the day that his dog died

He felt like the air had been

Sucked clean out of his lungs

And after sitting unable to move

He began to go through the motions

Of going on and getting over

But each night, for the next seven days

He turned on a light

And left a bowl of water

In the places where

There had been light

And there had been water

For his dog before she died.

When he told this story

To a group of people where he worked

He heard one whisper and say

“Oh…Now he must be a poet”

And he thought to himself

“No…I’ve always been a poet”

And smiled at this

For having never told them.