At Feet Of Dogs

At my feet the lapdogs of desire,
I wont greet their fawning, least not yet,
their foul breath would shrink a haemorroid,
perhaps I’ll feed them oats with garlic
instead. I fed their need for family,
I recognised each one and said
I loved them. Unconditionally.
Was I wrong? I cannot say they loved me back.
If love is deference then I’m remiss,
I’ve missed the true relationship;
I am adrift amid liaisons way beyond
my understanding. A long and tortured
time ago I thought I knew the difference,
that’s what my conscience said, and now
the same and chequered values lie
just trampled in the dust at feet of dogs
along with bleak and sad insane bequests.
© I.D. Carswell