Poetry for Max

A friend wrote this poem about Max after he died. I was grateful. However, I am not nearly as erudite as she makes me out to be.

Imprinting

Cool evenings, the Black Dog heard her read.
He lay at her feet curved like a scythe
a satin shadow-carpet. For him, here
was the crown of the day: he and she absorbed
in her speaking - Milton, Jonson, Poe, Donne,
Ferlinghetti and Dickinson.
His brandy eyes sealed to her face.

For a time, the random paw pat on her foot
was simply restlessness. Then her sensitivity
woke to his unvoiced opinion. But this
was personification, to give a dog opinion.
She smiled at the folly.
In a murmur one night, she said,
"What shall we have?" and from the floor
a rasp-bass replied "Donne"

Elizabeth Pharris