Allergic to Dogs

“This

is a lovely

charming

wolfhound-cross,

though, not mine, sweet.

A friend’s.

As I am allergic to dogs.”

So elegant.

Arbitrary, solicitous,

she befriends loyalty and selflessness

over a responsibility to her allergies.

Often deliberately placing others over individuality,

we attempt to provide from empty buckets.

Each of us accompanied by a wolfhound.

One we can not

should not

partner.

Yet, innocent, we do so.

Staring into the eyes of our wolfhound,

allergic

willing.

Those who smother you with fur,

pollen,

dust

static with undesirable properties.

Displaced devotion

taking form as a trickster,

too common to be noticeable,

though too uncommon to fabricate tolerance.

We desert our allergies,

leaving them stranded, far into the intellectual surrounds.

Leaving only your wolfhound as foreground

a possessive reminder

of why we sacrifice fear,

for the touch of a paw on our hand.

The feel of weak passion on our skin.

To possess mild charm behind our eyes.