I passed a trellis full of green vine adorned
In purple blossom, and passed a neighbor's house
Where the front door was
Open. Somewhere in there,
Marinara sauce simmered and sent
Its garlic breath down the street; a little
Bit of basil, a little bit of thyme. John,
Alone since his lover left, in an elegant front
Room, tends pale pink orchids, and
Hardy hibiscus, while newscasters blather from
The blue screen in the corner.
Passing on, I saw how
Venus hovered near a shadow cup of crescent
Moon, how night was in the sky, how gold
Still clung to the horizon. I walked on, into
Monday evening, into the week, the month,
The year. Paloma, the greyhound, pulled her
leash tight, knowing all the places where the other
Dogs peed. She had to sniff and study them all. Last
Night's dream came to mind, idiot voice shouting,
"Next year you'll be 50! Next year". You and
ten million others, I think. And now I am
near the home of the man who shot himself at his
shop while his wife and four children slept, and
I recall how his dog attacked mine one night,
a blur out of the dark as we walked home,
my head in the stars. The man ran out, grabbed
his dog by the collar, punched it's snout, made
quick embarrassed eye contact, muttered "Sorry"
and disappeared in the yard. Paloma was shaken,
and to this day will not walk down that alley, even
though the dog and his owner are gone. Soon
I am back in the driveway, I notice the door
is open, the grill is lit, and she comes to the door
with that smile on her face and says "How was your
walk?" and
cupping the dog's head in my hand
I say what I always say, which is that of
course, my walk was fine.
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