The Dog in the Park

I saw him at the park today,

golden and limping, moving slow,

an old man holding the leash, gray

hair and patience, watching him go.

The dog was tired. The dog was worn.

The dog looked up at his owner's face

like he was sorry for being born

into a body losing the race.

And suddenly I was ten again,

in the vet's office, holding my breath,

my parents' faces, the quiet when

they said the word that sounded like death.

Our dog was golden too. Our dog

was old. The pain was in his bones.

We walked him to the car through fog,

came home to silent food bowls.

The blanket in his room held his shape.

The toys were there. I couldn't will

myself to go inside. I had to escape

that room. I had to stay still

elsewhere, anywhere but there.

I was ten. I was too young

to understand. But I felt the snare

of loss, and I just stayed numb.

I watched the old man in the park

bend down to check his dog's paw.

The dog looked up at him in the dark.

I saw my own loss, raw.

The man stood up. They kept on walking.

I stood still. I couldn't follow.

Some things hit you without talking.

Some griefs just leave you hollow.