The old dog drug itself across our autumn path, a man's breath coating my face. We've been looking for a dog, but not a damaged dog, not a near-dead dog. You can't fix the broken with broken.
I'm running down the ditch. Draping night across my shoulders. I'm naked except for the clothes and the cry. Begging dog to look me in the eye. You shameful, you turntail, matted surly.
When that dog dug itself out of our bed, barked at the ghost of us. What did you expect? Busy turning keys between your teeth, purled with burrow and maple and gleam. No. I got real things to do, real shoes to sew to real feet.
When that dog didn't drip or bowl, why didn't you just leave me on the nightroad crawl and howl home?
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dead dog done, caitlin scarano