Basset Hounds and Love Affairs
Whenever I pulled, Jerome sat
and straightened his stubby front legs
to fight the leash. Too stubborn to house train
he followed his nose away from home every other day.
Dad and I searched the neighborhood for hours
to bring him back. Oh, why couldn’t he be more like Lassie?
The last time I watched Jerome’s squat body
shrink with distance through the car’s rear window,
grief burst from my chest like a surprise
party stripper from a cake. I cried for days.
All those impossible women
with their late night crying jags,
Ronald Reagan campaign buttons,
vacant looks, and unvaccinated children
stare at me from across the decades
with a Basset’s sad eyes.
To make amends I dream
the patience and pure heart
I’d need to share a home and
ungainly dog with each. Reality
tears these good wishes from my fingers.
Today, a Basset trotted over to me,
while his owners walked him near the sea wall.
I knelt. He climbed onto my lap and slobbered my face.
I stroked his head, whispered an apology into floppy ears,
and walked away.