The Man With the Cane

The Man With the Cane

The dog is red right up to the muzzle,

which is white with a big raisin in the middle.

The dog is greyhound thin, with long legs

and a sharp scoop of stomach.

The bushy tail is setter-ish, and furls

behind like something burr-ish

got stuck in there.

The dog sets down one paw at a time,

so old the paws all work separately,

and the leash is dress-up, not a command.

When the dog trips into the street,

it blinks blindly at the light of day,

trying to please the man with the cane.

All the cars watch, and the helmeted bicyclist

and I begin to cry in the left-hand turn lane,

and when the light changes no one moves,

no honking or revving. We all stop and pray

at the old dog, even though we've never

prayed before.

Maybe we're all weeping--the loyalty

of a white-muzzled dog who obviously

doesn't need a walk anymore,

and the man with a cane who might love the dog

or not, and we all see, at last, how we could

be better people, and we give thanks in our

silent cars for that.