Their dog // a Spaniel-mix named Buddy // never leveraged his cuteness // for anything // a past unknown misfortune // landed him in a shelter // traffic-stopping good looks // got him adopted immediately // but he was returned pronto // having proven insufficiently playful // for his new family // “he’s shut down” // the shelter director said // as his wife and he // walked the silent // confused young dog // they took him home anyhow // he went straight up the stairs // to the bedroom // and lay down in a closet // metaphorically // that’s where he stayed // for three or four years // but it’s been many years // since he began to wait for them // at the front door // peering through the glass panel // licking his chops // as they got close // years since he decided // he liked car rides // at 4 pm daily // without exception // and discovered he did want to play // after dinner every night // for about ten minutes // for nearly thirty years // his wife had taken Buddy // or his predecessor // to the park at the end of May // to see and smell the locust trees // in bloom // “could be his last year” // she said when Buddy was almost 16 // as he pushed 17 // she urged him regularly // to stick around for the ritual woman/dog walk // that was last year // they just now left for the park again // Buddy can at least smell the blossoms // the great writer/dog-lover Jim Harrison // lamented that dogs’ lives // rush ahead of ours // but once again // this afternoon // the wife and Buddy are side by side // walking beneath the locust trees // very slowly // the husband fills the water bowl // and feels lucky
∞
David M. Alper is a high school AP English teacher in New York City, residing in Manhattan. His work has appeared in Tipton Poetry Journal, OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters, Thirty West Publishing House, and elsewhere.
