[media-credit name=”Nick B” align=”alignnone” width=”640″][/media-credit]
I apologize for finding this dog to shadow
you even as you pace the attic from desk
to window, you and he, a pair now, contemplating
those tough computer programming issues
at which dogs notoriously shine.
He accompanies your every step. I’m sorry
he curls into a protective C near the head
of the stairs in case an intruder prowls
through the rest of the house to find you;
protects you in his guardian curl but fails
to bark unless, of course, the intruder thinks
to use the doorbell and then, I’m sorry I
brought home this dog who joins the clamor
of the clapper and dashes and woofs
and raises the roof. I am sorry I chose this dog
who walks with a loose leash by your side, calmer
than a summer wind, calmer than the yogi,
tail swinging, mouth in a big, wide laugh
and you must walk and walk and walk him
and he draws you outdoors in black, in wet.
I am sorry this dog lures you from your work;
this dog holds you close to home; this dog
empties your pocketbook; this dog compels
you to love him. I’m sorry.

Categories Poetry

Pamela Hobart Carter loves Seattle as much for its water and mountains as for its bustle and creativity. She explores the Emerald City daily while walking her dog. Carter used to be a teacher who wrote on the side. Now she is a writer who teaches on the side.

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