Unsolicited Escort

The bus stop smelled like diesel and wet fur.

He was there when I stepped off the curb,

a matted mess of wire and ribs

matching my limp with a rhythmic click.

Four blocks of silence and clicking nails.

I told him to go, I waved my hand,

but he stayed exactly six feet back

like he’s being paid to see me in.

Maybe we’re both just too tired to lead.

He doesn't want a bowl or a name.

He just wants a pace that feels like a plan

until the porch light cuts the night in two.