The Dog's Job

Who assigned you this task, Mr. Big Boy,
Shaky Legs, Bony Old Fur Bag,
to bark me from bed with your booming voice
at 3 a.m. in the middle of winter?
You're off down the hall with your shuffling gait,
trailing tufts of white hair that float up like milkweed.
I stumble after, yawning and cursing,
eyes out of focus, a catch in my knee-
I'm not such a puppy myself now, you know.
Grumbling slave to your impatient bladder,
I clutch at my robe against what is coming
and roll aside the patio door.
Together we lurch out over the sill,
smack into the cold
and the crystalline dark and
oh my god
the stars.

© Rivage 2002