The Dog

With every roll of noble limbs, each pirouette
He plops along the earth languid as a prince.
Rarely when nearby am I released from his vision.
Or, while I'm in the house, the place is paced round
In earnest purpose the desperate body all listening ear.
The mighty nostrils carve me out of the wind, find me in darkness.
Who am I that he is held in such thrall?
I am not his kind. I am of my kind:
Not even a child looks upon the mother so.
We do not know we are subject to his benignity
By devotion so beguiled.
In the orange eyes I see the slender
Uneasy gulf between the dog and wolf.
With each gaze met

Our silent contract made anew.


© Rhett Talley