The Ghost in the Wool

I pulled the winter coat out from the box

and felt a needle prick against my palm.

It wasn't a burr or the seeds of the phlox

but a single black hair, stiff and calm.

It's been six years since we dug the hole

back by the shed where the garden hose dies.

I still see the rust in the metal bowl

that caught all the rain from the autumn skies.

The leash laws have changed on the avenue park,

the signs are all shiny and new.

But I’m still listening for a sudden bark

when the wind pulls the screen door through.