The immortal dogs of my fictions,
exhausted from centuries of fetch,
are laid out in puddles of sun

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or rummaging for slugs
in the banks of soggy leaves.

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It is autumn, and the air
is a bakery of dander and pollen.

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It is autumn, and the immortal
dogs of my fictions are sniffing
and digging for ancient wisdoms.

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In the bulges of mulch, in the
outstretched hands of children,

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there is something I cannot know.

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And in the oiled rotation of their
immortal hips, in these unspoiled
brindles and chocolates and merles,

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I find a spot to scratch
and I scratch that spot forever.

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Perhaps if I am kind, one will whimper
by my grave one day, in the shadow
of that eroding masonry, my epitaph
chiseled in the language of dogs.

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Freed of leash and muzzle,
with rage and jubilation,

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the immortal dogs of my fictions
hunt for squirrels and hummingbirds.

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And if they’re feeling any pain,
I don’t know how I’d know,
but I like to think I would.