Maybe Two

the feet burn;

cold, like blocks of ice,

dead and distant,

bloated and swollen;

movement comes hard;

the phone rings,

the VA,

telling you they got

the latest lab results,

want you to up

the dosage,

you hit ignore,

roll back over;

enough is enough;

you think about truth,

you think about lies,

you think about appearances,

you think about deception;

we all get exactly what

we deserve;

Petey lays at your feet,

quietly concerned,

understanding more

than most,

seeing things

others cannot,

it is instinctual;

it is on another level;

somehow you fight through

the stupor,

rising once more,

putting one foot in front

of the other,

until eventually

you feel the floor

again;

“c’mon Petey” you say,

who jumps quickly up,

tail wagging,

“let’s go check the mail,”

not ready to give up

just yet;

still got one more round,

maybe two.

.

.