The Corner

I don't know where it came from.

No collar. No voice calling it back.

Just there on Tuesday, ears half-folded—

one up, one down—like it was listening

to two conversations in different rooms.

It matched my pace exactly.

Not following, but parallel.

As if we'd made an agreement

I didn't remember making.

For four blocks I pretended

I didn't notice. Then at the corner

I stopped, and it stopped.

It looked at me like I was supposed to know

what to do with this.

Like I had a choice.

Every day since I've taken the long way,

hoping. And yesterday it was there,

the same ears, the same nothing

behind its eyes that meant something.

Everything.

I can't keep it.

I don't even know what it eats.

But I know what it's like

to want something you can't name

to want you without asking first.