Invisible Dog

When the day goes grey
my invisible dog gets antsy.
No one but me hears him bark,
frantic, while I slip on boots,
smiling at his silly grammar.
I take him off leash. He knows
the eleven-minute loop
by heart, is actually walking me.
Twitching toward coyote,
mountain lion, wild cat,
domestic dog, brown bear:
holy scat. All to the nose,
none to the lifted leg,
are sacrosanct.
He’s no ghost.
This pinyon church
in which we live,
his scented domain.
God’s favorite dog.
When we return,
I appear alone.
My husband doesn’t know
while we watch the screen,
invisible, my dog sits pretty,
watching me, hunting my eyes,
tongue panting gratitude and hope
for another go. I don’t.


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