A Sop for Cerberus

He needed me. Alone at the gates of Hell,

He looked at me, his six rheumy eyes

Fixing me imploringly. So I fed him meat

And with a leap, he jumped onto my back:

The animal musk and the weight of him,

The great paws, the salivating jaw,

The hot muzzle and demon-bloody wounds,

Startling. But I found I could carry him,

And brought him home to keep:

The dead do not play; the dead do not speak.