I sit on the small, open air, cedar porch

leaving the door into the great room open

to hear the golf tournament.

My wife sits inside under a lamp sewing one of

her sculptures on a quiet Sunday

afternoon.

I set down my wine glass on the wood floor away

from where the dog will be and look up to see rain

drops on the slats.

My Chocolate Lab wakes, slides off the couch,

follows me out of the house and faces me, tail

wagging fiercely.

He barks his whiskey bark, a bone collapsing in

his old throat. He gags and coughs, courteously

turning his head down and away.

He turns back, looks directly into my eyes as if

challenging me, “Come on, buddy. Let’s rumble.”

I wipe a sleeper

from his eye left again by a busy sandman and pat

him on his head. His tail swings rhythmically. He

squints approval and

lifts his bony, football player’s knees into the house

looking for his mistress.