The water bowl

I read a poem that fills me with admiration
and a small shiver. Distracted, I walk
toward the sink to do nothing I know
about. I notice the dog's water bowl is
low; crumbs of kibble are swollen at
the bottom of the bowl. I take it to
the sink and dump out the water. I know
the inside of the bowl is slimy and I wonder
if he will notice if I only replace
the water, if he can see through me, my
back turned. He shifts his weight on
the couch and sighs. I decide to scrub
it with my bare hand then fill it to
the brim. It makes a dull clunking
sound when I put it down on the concrete
floor. The water shakes but does not
spill. Somewhere in his rolled-back
eyes he applauds my decision to love
him even a little bit more.

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