MINUS THE WIFE AND DOG
When his dog died he walked alone
again. He picked up his coat off
the peg hook and opened
the front door to let the sun shine
on his door mat. Dust danced
in the light as he walked out
his feet tapping the morning sky.
He carried a dog lead in one pocket,
and a lock of his wife’s hair in the other.
The gate was ajar then he pulled at it,
heard the metal argue with the floor.
His mouth became whistle shaped
released the words that were lost
in his brain.