11-10-2025, 01:26 PM
Before the Dog
I imagine him sipping
two fingers of bourbon
finishing a sudoku.
Pencil sharpened,
each number centered
precisely within its box.
He wrote 3 and finished
his drink,
considers the pencil’s point.
A shadow covers the puzzle.
He’s sitting at their table,
a pretext in a room
of empty tables.
And then they all converge.
No witnesses.
I imagine him sipping
two fingers of bourbon
finishing a sudoku.
Pencil sharpened,
each number centered
precisely within its box.
He wrote 3 and finished
his drink,
considers the pencil’s point.
A shadow covers the puzzle.
He’s sitting at their table,
a pretext in a room
of empty tables.
And then they all converge.
No witnesses.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson