Entire Unto Himself

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Already cold and stiff by the time I arrived, 
It was a shallow shadow, gray against black; 
A collar of blood fringed its matted coat. 

I picked it up, carefully, and placed it 
Between plastic-shrouded seats, and then drove home.
A block away, light glowed through undraped windows. 

The telephone sat silently. It had rung once that night;
A stranger’s voice described the dog —where 
To find it, what had happened . . . that it was dead. 

That voice had sent me to the street. Now, 
There was no voice, no echo, no sounds in the house —
No cadenced clicks of nails against linoleum. 

I sagged into a chair. The family would return 
Within the hour. The children would not notice, 
Perhaps . . . but she would. She would know the loss. 

I sat. Phantom weight pressed against 
My feet where he had lain —that one place 
Where he had not been wanted but that he chose. 

Phantom breathing bled through stiff silences.
Finally, headlights pierced the windowpanes.
Her car pulled up the curving drive, and stopped. 

I met her at the door, instead of him. 
I whispered . . . something . . . words that held no sense.
And held her as she wept.