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To the Old Man Without His Dog
I remember your dog. You sat on a bench in the sun. It was early spring, and you were without a hat. Your dog curled around your boots while you read from a small green book. He kept his paws on your cane, which I noticed had been wrapped with peeling tape. He watched the passersby as you read slowly and carefully. His snout was white with age, and tufts of fur matted in some places, fell out in others. What you were reading must have pleased you. I watched you smile, look up, reach down to your dog on his back. Your dog seemed gently soothed, as though the things you read you shared with him too. Perhaps you divorced housewives ready sex encounters date married women told him of tall mountains, lush forests, an endless landscape to be mapped onto our sidewalk. You didn't notice me, which was fine. But your dog watched me dutifully, protecting you, the cane, the book, the bench. His left eye was rheumy like a beautiful marble. I watched him yawn and look to you for reassurance that he could rest a while. You nodded. He slept. I would see you every morning near the bench. When you walked, you walked slowly, your dog unsteady on his knobby haunches. Your route was short and well worn. I imagined you and your dog had walked this route a hundred-thousand times. Before the little park on the corner, the ice-cream vendors, the bench. It was your route back when the streets swarmed with rats and had nowhere else to go. It was your route when the crooners hung from their windows, their lovers asleep in each others' beds. I remember your dog on a day when a storm rolled in from the river. It was summer then, and the air was thick and pungent. He guided you beneath the awning just before the began. We stood beside one another, your dog between us, attentive. He moved his snout from side to side, following the squalls of water over the asphalt. I did not know if he could see, but it didn't matter. You would follow him anywhere. Together we watched people scurry through the streets, breaking their umbrellas in the wind and laughing. You looked down at your dog and said, "good boy." I remember your dog as you walk beside the bench. It is winter now, and you have found your hat. Our sidewalk is slick and sprinkled with salt. "Good boy," you don't say, because there is no dog for whom that means you are with him. We regard each other, I on the bench and you passing by. You're walking more slowly now, and your cane has been wrapped with extra tape. You the small green book, which you have finally returned to.
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