Afternoon with an Elderly Dog

Your limbs quiver as the wood floor slips under
your nails and your flanks knock into furniture.

You’re braving your longest trek: from couch to
kitchen to water dish. With lightning in my heart,

I watch you unlearning how to walk—a puppy
in reverse. Then, water lapped and food sniffed,

you labor back to the living room.

When I help you
scrabble onto the couch beside me, your eyes pool

acceptance, gratitude. And a flash of something else,
cutting pity to the quick. Hiding dread, I begin

to croon, stroking your velvet ears.

Soon, my body
too will tortoise its greatest journey—

sofa to kitchen to kettle to cup. I imagine each
muscle fierce in meditation on how to wed

feet to floor and hand to table’s edge. Like yours,
my rippling youth, once swift and careless, will be

supplanted by a different grace—desire untethered
from control.

Reading my thoughts, you lick my face,

then circle the sofa cushion, making a nest of air
to sleep away the afternoon.

Don’t worry, Ace,
I murmur. I’m taking notes.