DOGGED

The injured past comes back like a mangy dog. a
It hangs around, infecting my doorstep with its sores
and the smell of neglect, trips me up when I venture out,
circling my legs, ready for the next casual kick.

If I feed it, it’ll never go away.
If I ignore it, it’ll never leave
but press its scabby skin against the door-pane,
crouch in the corner of my eye, licking its paw,

or cower in the wing-mirror as I drive away
and limp out to meet me when I come back,
loyal and unwelcome as disease.