Invisible Leashes
(for Alfred)
Young Dog runs into wind,
barks that leashes do not exist.
I trust my table scraps become
his tail wags at my door. Young
Dog knows wags become hot trails,
and that a panting tongue finds its wish
when it finds a sniff, or a Frisbee,
or a tail chase, or a good bitch.
Old Dog knows the cost in a leash:
how the sniff becomes a slap,
how the sprint becomes a nap,
how the bitch becomes a yawn.
He knows the value in a leash tug
when snow freezes his feet,
the value of sad eyes at meal times,
the value of one hand on a lonely head.
Old Dog knows the value of a leash
changes to zero on that day
when chasing tail
equals one step over
and one fall over.
