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In Dog Years
Now she’s a farting, fading ghost,
tracing the hardwood halls, at night
nails clicking like a geiger counter,
sniffing for something lost. No dead
masters here, we all rest robust.
I’m not sleepwalking, say her mossy
tunneled-out eyes, cataracts caught yellow
in the flashlight; a smokey halo holds
her head in the shadows.
Still a pup she’d nuzzle
my arm for attention. I,
chasing down a sentence,
gently nudged her away.
The very way I wan-smiled
and mustered a half-assed “great”
when my boy barged in to brag
he’d scored an improbable goal.
Here I imagine a silent keening
accompanies her tender steps.
Bewildered, lamenting
the rotting timbers of age.
The guilty given surprise of us
all having grown so suddenly,
stealthily, younger than her.
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