Dogs’ Breakfast
Mustering what strength lingers
at this extremity of age,
I clench and sit up, fingers
reach down for outdoor footwear
(velcro for quick fastening)
then bedside for spectacles.
Yes, you two dogs, I’m hastening -
with you ahead - downstairs;
your meal of the day, whether
winter’s dark or summer’s early dawn,
must not be postponed further.
The old boy lurches to his bowl,
shut behind the bathroom door;
the rambunctious girl Labrador
starts fast on hers lest he steal from
her hungry fellow-breakfaster.
She’s ready first to take the leash
awaiting her at the front door.
I’m already in jacket and cap -
one hides pajamas, one bad hair.
Trot to the elevator, trot hot-
foot through the lobby, trot
hot-foot through the tall metal
gates that clang behind us.
Already we’re on the green verge:
here, an hour before, sprinklers
rinsed and kept it green, and
the line of dogwood trees stand
in dignity and fruitfulness.
Snaffle a fallen berry, must you?
Dogwood by definition can’t
be poisonous, I guess. Back
to the lobby and lift, quick -
upstairs Senior waits his turn.
Changing of the guard, transferring
of the leash. Repetition.
May we now relax? The blackest
crows of Bellevue Avenue East
resume their search for breakfast, hop
back down from tree and car top.
Sunday breakfast glumly ensues.
What says the online world of news?
Natural and manmade disasters
compete, history rebukes, futures
are dire. At this extremity of time
man and dogs share a lucky home.
Capitol Hill, Seattle, November 2016
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