Wool and Mud

The radiator is screaming at the damp in the air

while I hang my coat on the peg by the light.

The neighbor's retriever was standing right there

when I came through the lobby away from the night.

He shook his coat and the spray hit my sleeve,

a metallic, heavy scent of swamp and of fur.

It’s a smell that doesn't know how to leave,

a thick, animal cloud that makes the senses blur.

I can see his paw prints on the lobby tile,

round muddy moons leading back to the hall.

I smell the rain on him for a long, long while,

soaking into the wool and the wood of the wall.