The Hour for Walking Dogs
       

And so at the hour for cocktails
and the walking of dogs
my Lab—named Moby for color
and Coyote for his origin
on this high desert—and I
take our seats on the patio
to satisfy our curiosities.
He has three ways to watch
because the house behind us
is old news. I look
straight ahead, thinking back.

Our block's a favorite for walking dogs,
a bit of shade, a school at one end
and church grounds at the other make
a fertile space barely patrolled
by the prudish. Our walkers keep
their plastic bags folded
in obvious pockets and chat on cells
into the air. Such passion wasted!
I have my gin and the dog his bone.
My eye is sharp, his nose keen
for what's in the wind.

A creature of habit, he knows
the score: there's a certain time
for this place, and he's not going
to miss it. I could use his sense
of moment. For me
it's that time of evening
when exercise involves the old days
and friends, or those I thought so,
our informations filed and lost.
The dog and I settle in, but right now
there's not much for us to track

except the early arrivals
for the Tuesday AA that meets
in the church basement. A few
pause and greet on the sidewalk
before going down to folding chairs,
ashtrays, the coffee urn. Moby wets
his nose and collects the sober details
of the day. As usual I think of
calling someone with the news.
In the time we have been here
something has changed for good.

Tweet

Copyright © 2019 Jon Kelly Yenser All rights reserved
from The News as Usual
University of New Mexico Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission