The Dog and I
 
When the dog and I walk,
we walk together. At my side,
stopping to smell a tree,
he picks up the scent of
another male, and leaves behind
his own ingrained calling card.
Pissing to communicate is ancient,
a transmission of chemical
commands not so different
from arguing with the woman,
that hot stream of invective.
When we walk, I forget
about disagreeable things.
I think of meadows and flowers
and rushing mountain waters.
I think I’m somewhere else.
The dog is always in the moment,
head down, sniffing a trail
ahead of us. We never argue.
We are both relieved to
discover we can empty ourselves
of the waste inside of us.