He had pretty well learned to roll over and play alive though there
was no reward for such a trick (neither for speaking nor shaking
nor even sitting up, for chrissakes). But this was okay; he only
longed to curl up in the cool and dark beneath the porch and pant
out his last few breaths unperturbed. This was all he asked. But
even this seemed too much; always someone called again, “Come
on. Come on, boy.”
And the unspoken reply, “Alright, alright, I’m coming.”
poetastrophy 