Sad Sallie, latchkey collie, your matted pelt baptized by forest dew, a witness to your rendezvous through dark nights and lonesome days. Your feet, swift to mischief, know the way to the house of compassion. The hands that feed and hearts that bleed dwell there and are not raised against your sweet face or turned cold toward your need. Rest breathes whispers of stillness and comfort yawns wide, a prelude to immoveable slumber in the porch chair. Yet, what charity redeems, reality challenges. Another day, one that is not your own, to make or be made as you please. Your eyes belie your unassumming loyalty to masters underserving and plead with darting glances to stay. Your call to go home, instinctive and perpetual moves you reslolutely and regrettably. Assurance and approbation, longed for of more familiar surroundings, fills the hole of rejection but is sacrificed for the fleeting hope of the acceptance and natural affection of those you really need.
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