There Will Be Stairs
A leash, a bowl, at least
one walk a day
two squares and all the
flotsam and jetsam
you can cadge short of
larceny from the
plate. The park is close, an open maw that
must be appeased, sere
indifferent god with
this strange affinity for
tennis balls
offered up in prayerful
overhand arcs.
Let’s hope you’re no
fetching unbeliever,
the rational type thwarting
every gift
sent aloft, dropping Nietzsche
and endless
filthy Spauldings at my
feet. You can count
on rides in the car and
walks in the woods
year round, red bandana in
winter, a
dash of color on the
canvas of a
painting we’ll never
finish, returning
again and again to a stark
landscape
vibrating with ranks of vertical
tines
issuing from ribbons of
blue shadow
unfurled toward dusk, a
field of white festooned
with your bold smudges of
heedless yellow.
There will be stairs to
lever and convey
us up and down, in and out,
a benign
case that will metastasize
as we age
along parallel tracks, dwarfing
us one
unexpected evening in
spring, coffee
programmed, door closed on
one final circuit
of the backyard, a series
of slow drips
and drabs to remind you
why you went out
in the first place, a
familiar artless
dance among dogs and men
of a certain
mien. We’ll stand wordless, moon waning through
an upper pane, day spent,
our long shared trail
behind us, a moment’s
hesitation
at the bottom of the
looming well then
up to bed where I’ll lay
awake until
the sound of your breathing
falls in step with
the warm night breeze that
rustles the curtains
and seeds our dreams, here
to beckon us out
for a walk off the leash through
woods stirring
green, last cones of snow bidding
us farewell.
