The dog in bed
Lays longwise
Across the duvet
Looks me in the eye
Innocently, like the two-year-old
Syrian girl without a passport.
Alarm clock
Radio talking too loud
in the other room.
The dog in bed
Has ticked away from me
Could be coffee breath
Or selfishness,
It being late morning now.
Nearly twelve hours have passed
Since her last walk. I pissed
Twice in the minty night
And thought nothing of it
Until now. Her breathing
Gentle, a bit staccato and
She has tocked back to me.
When we make eye contact
Her long white lash flutters
And she pulls air into her lungs
In such a way that a high-pitched
Whistle curls out from her wet brown nose
A whisper of smoke, and her tail
Beats twice with rhythm
On the bedsheet. A third time.
I’m surprised and ignore her
To write this. Hard sigh. She is better
Not knowing what I know
About 1676,
Or needing a mug of sweet, hot coffee delivered to her
In bed to get going. Let’s go, girl, for that walk
Across a Europe that does not want or need us.
