at 9:30 p.m. dog and I street walk
and each night,
I see the world as she does
paws dancing, tongues hanging, afraid
she is not from here
she wants to be back
in her crate or vermont take me back,
her anxious breath like
a cockroach as large as los angeles
skitters out of the shadows, skateboarding
lovers take out the trash, babies cry their
displeasure. I never know
what to make of crying babies.
it could be a
or a tiny hair
a baby toe.
this poem doesn’t mean anything
like nothing means a thing except
bearing witness today
a dog I love but
had to leave
in a crate all day
I had to work.
she cried at the loud fragrant unknown
and begged me to take her back but
we padded through the streets until she
found a quiet patch of grass
where she could stand
and sniff, forgotten fear
Further notes: on walking.