My dog sits at my side
not quite touching me,
but our warmth connects us
in waves.
We watch as four houses down
a car's headlights come,
shine brightly,
then are dark.
They tumble out, mother and two boys
laughing loudly.
Their voices drift muffled to us here
Grocery bags crinkle.
Their dog wags up to them
escorting them to the porch, to the front door.
They pat his head and go inside
where it is light.
Through the window, we see them
take off their coats in the glow.
The dog stands, tail slowing,
looking in through the screen.
He whines a moment,
then the door thuds shut.
The dog stands still looking
at the white door, closed.
In the dark, he circles and lies down,
curled up fetal against the door.
My dog and I rise together, go inside,
and share my dinner by the fire.
All poems copyrighted by the author, Tracey Besmark 1997©
