Civics

The dog days are not

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.