Tracking hoofprints in the snow with the dog.
Later on, a detached leg in the dog’s mouth.
Into the dumpster it gets hurled,
the dog circling for final traces.
We’re all looking for crowns for our efforts,
showing them off like a happy mutt.
When images of folly are rebroadcast,
some can clear them away,
others return to the chase, the meat,
not sure who claims victory.
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Comments about this poem (Deer Leg by Ellen Foos )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
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