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
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
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.