He was dying and I didn’t know it.
He was dying and the tests were inconclusive.
He was dying and I changed his diet.
He was dying and he couldn’t tell me.
He was dying and I dreamt of poplars shivering,
a tumor in their lungs.
He was dying and there was nothing more
they could do.
He died and I swept his fur from our house.
He is dead and the broom gathers dust, alone.