Shoot it if it rhymes

Sorry

With a pulsing, searing,
snaking thread,
I reached inside you
last Wednesday.

What it touched was a
little pool, pooch - a tiny thimble of eye-water.

My mind forgets, pooch,
the handicap of its own shadows.

Spinning the strands of love and hurt
in one bittersweet thread – silk and barbed wire in one satinscratchin’ rope.

Hang me with it, pooch,
by all means,
but please, please smile.