Reading our books in bed in the early evening
You, a favorite murder mystery
I think you’ve read three or four times
Me, another damn poetry book
Together, we hear a forlorn cry
from one of our sleeping dogs. It was high pitched
So, it must have been from our little guy
We check them both to be sure they are okay
And they are. He probably had a bad dream
You wonder why our little brown fella
felt so sorrowful in his dream
and fret about what you can do
to keep him from being that despondent again
You worry about it for some time
before returning to your book
And this is how I know I love you