There was a woman who looked like my mom, standing at the railing, and she was looking at the water.
I went to her.
I told her about the rainbow patches on either side
of the sun.
"It's called a sun dog."
She saw it, too.
That was really all I wanted.
Sun dog.
I read about them once,
in a textbook for class last semester.
Looking was not enough.
I wanted to reach out
and touch it.
And when I die, please,
I want to pet the sun dog,
scratch him behind his rainbow ears and
let his glimmering coat
blind me.
YOU ARE READING
Everything left to complain about (stopped) (go read my other poem book)
PoetryPoems and strings of words that don't qualify as poems, from all four years of high school until the summer after freshman year of college. My recent works and anything I continue to write can be found in my new poem book, "Open your hands and say s...
