Doggone

You entered my life

with a dog

and you exited my life

with a dog.

(I feel)

I feel

rudderless

without you.

The Difference

I'm in the office

finishing my workday.

You are downstairs

baking a cheesecake.

The dog floats between

floors, scouring the kitchen floor

for graham cracker crumbs, napping next to you

on the couch between baking steps,

and popping into the office to say hello.

At some point,

you both come into the office,

you to talk about the grocery list,

and the dog to roll around

on the floor to scratch her back.

We are existing

and coexisting

harmoniously, as a unit,

as a family.

The difference is

I want to continue

doing this with you

and you want to do this

with someone else.

(My heart is no longer)

My heart is no longer

a healthy muscle, but merely a

mass of scar tissue.

I Miss Your Scent

I've taken to smelling your shirts

while you are at work,

knowing that they

will not be in our house

for much longer.

Thanksgiving Traffic

Three miles in an
hour and a half --
bumper-to-bumper
interstate congestion and
stomach indigestion,
angry drivers with
hungry kids, no
exit in sight, and
no explanation.
Arrivals delayed;
hugs and hand-
shakes on hold;
dinners postponed.
It was easy to get
irritated and impatient,
until we saw
the white sheet
on the ground.
Suddenly, we were
thankful for the
fume-filled air that
we were breathing.