Three days ago I had a dog.
Four weeks ago, I had a daughter.
One and twenty one. Pup. Adult.
I could press my hand against his flop and brindled muzzle;
Her half-filled cereal bowl (so much wasted milk) sat beside my sink.
His snore a benediction, my nightly au revoir.
The final thing I heard.
Her face–alight from the flicker of a favorite movie–
The final thing I saw.
Now, both are gone.
A quick stripping, a sudden wrench, a dark smash-and-grab
(A stealing from all sides.)
Simple tearing and ripping.
Powerless against their absence.
Two lives I thought to help to save.
Two lives I loved.
And I, again, in mine.
Present. In all this absence.