from The Prison Poems of Kenneth Lay

My wife, she writes.

The dog has grown infirm.
I will not observe its final pawed steps,
Or chauffeur it to its sleep
At the veterinary chamber.

My wife, I write back to her, and try humor:
“Cupcake, save some cash.
Take Rhubarb out back, and shoot her.”

I have not heard back from my wife.

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