The Poetry of
Jack Scott

Adopting a Puppy

When I think of love
death must come to mind,
for all love dies.

Love is like the flu.
We suffer all its symptoms
until it goes away
or nearly kills us
while we wish that we were dead.

I’d not want to face my death,
never having suffered love.
I’ll not need to mourn
if I have loved completely
and been loved enough,


334 ®Copyright 1973 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.