K A T E ‘ S   P O E M S
Not quite Greyfriar’s Bobby
Not quite Greyfriar’s Bobby,
though you stayed with her
for two weeks

and grief stricken you bit
the policeman’s hand
when he tried to break in.

Dog handlers in gauntlets
had more success
grabbing you by the scruff

and pulling you, bone-bag,
away from the scene.

Freed at last
to look around
they noted you’d shit
by the door,
and peed in the lobby,
had to drink from the toilet
and feed on her body.

Not quite Greyfriar’s Bobby.
You stayed
true to your breed.