Big Dog
Having attained in his first year
140 pounds, the Newfie
has figured out about as much
as he’s going to, except
the heat. He implodes on the sidewalk,
his sigh a major statement. His mistress,
as tall as he is long, and dressed
for Pilates or running, bends
as she talks, straightens, hair swaying,
as if her Bluetooth were a saxophone,
she soloing. The dog
is unsure if her tone
means Office or Boyfriend
at the horizon of time, this evening.
He sniffs the water set out for dogs
in a shallow metal bowl. It’s hot,
and stinks, but he decides it’s water.
Cars nose the curb
as if nursing, leave as if full.
The mistress, still talking, drifts
away from an old couple
admiring the dog. The man pats his head,
saying *You’re certainly a big dog*.
A little girl stares,
hesitates. The dog pants and drools.
The mother croons, *He’s a nice dog*;
the girl approaches, then decides to cry.
The Newfie sighs again. Is emotion
required here, or only observation?
|