a month to me, unless
it rains, I stash plastic baggies
in my civic duty pockets
and allow two morning leashes
to pull my shoulder sockets
to the curb.
The still orange sun bedazzles
dew wet tips of fresh mowed green
as a squadron of dragonflies
hums yellow and blue beside us,
the pup following a nose
with time leaps of its own,
the matron content to trot a long,
as long as I follow protocol.
I married into this privilege
of seemly suburban postcardism,
convicted by an Irish movie script,
"if ya cain't love a dog, ya cain't love anything."
For all my choir singing and grace before meals,
it's somehow very tidy
that the depth of my heart is known
by morning romps and brushings
and fresh water in a bowl.