JVD

Old lady has an old
lame dog that lies
beside her bed,
licking the hand she drops
in darkness to his head.

Or did, for yesterday
she took him to the vet
who couldn’t give him back
the legs he’d lost
to his enfeeblement
and sent him on instead
to his reward, a grave
beside the pond, across
the field from where he lived,
dug before he died
in preparation.

Again the hand falls now
in restless sleep,
feeling for what it cannot find,
obedient to something
not yet out of mind.

What’s that in the moonlight
coming on the grass
hump-gaited toward the door
through which it passes
silently on silent feet
to reach the quiet room
where it stands briefly
staring at the quiet form
before it turns to settle,
curled, in its accustomed place.

She stirs a second time,
then drifts away to dream,
easy in her state.
What watches there is gone by day
to lie beneath the leaves and wait.