The Poem

From the Flash Fiction prompt “write about a creation.”

I wrote the poem about him when the first snowflake of the season tickled my tongue, just in the time it took me to clean up after the puppy.  I thought I’d scooped up enough shit, put on enough miles, that he couldn’t penetrate the fortress he made me build. 

Turns out, The Three Little Pigs must’ve built that castle; he hit me like an avalanche that winter and the walls washed away with a bunch of roots in the spring runoff.  

By the time the puppy became a dog, I realized the poem wasn’t just about him, it was for him, about us.  There wasn’t an us anymore, of course.  I had buried “us” during the pandemic, hadn’t I? 

So why did I post the poem on his wall the night the dog woke me up with vomit coloring the passage from couch to yard?  I gave her medicine and cuddles and prayed she wouldn’t puke on me or my bed, prayed he wouldn’t leave me undelivered. 

Her tail wagged when his reply pinged and vibrated on my drowsy hand. There was a red heart on the verse bubble. Then, the three dots played with my heart mercilessly for another dog year.  Finally, his words materialized: “Does that mean what I think it does?” My fingers, now fully awake, poised over the tiny keyboard. 

“Do you want it to?” 

Damn it; I just gave him control of the narrative; now the fairytale is his.  What chapter would he write?

The dog stood up, walked in a circle, fluffed the pillow and blanket and settled down, her ears perked, head cocked, paw hovering mid air, while his three dots danced the polka with the life I had built without him.