“A sad dog’s secret diary, free verse”

In the thin light before breakfast,  
I bury my heart in the soft dust  
beneath the porch slats—  
creak, shiver, tail tucked tight.  
You think I am chasing a cricket,  
but I am writing my secrets  
in shallow paw marks,  
the only ink I own.

No one reads the story behind my sigh:  
how the patch of sunlight on the carpet  
reminds me of my mother  
and something warm, safe,  
lost just beyond memory.

I do not howl when you leave,  
but inside, there’s a hollow place  
ringing with the echo of your footsteps  
down the driveway.

At dinner, I stare at my bowl,  
the kibbles dry and round as stones—  
I wish for the taste of your laughter,  
dropped like chicken scraps,  
back before the new baby’s soft cries  
became the music of the evening.

Once, there was a space on the couch  
just for me,  
your hand nestled into the hills and valleys  
of my fur,  
telling me sometimes a friend  
is the whole horizon.

Tonight I patrol the silence of the yard,  
each shadow a memory:  
the lost tennis ball,  
the fetch that never quite made it  
back into your hands.

In my diary, I write with nose and claw:  
I am still waiting.  
I am still yours.  
And if you ever remember  
the way we once ran  
side by side—  
I will race to meet you,  
old scars forgotten,  
a single bark breaking open the dawn.

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