Tufting the Corgi
Do I need a sweater? The evening
air has cooled thinner, the time on
the clock doesn’t match the light
outside. An orange dog jumps up,
not quite small enough for a lap,
fidgeting a spot close but looking
away, air-licking anxiety. Is he seven
now? A few soft barks, his toenails
sharp as he circles. Settling, his
eyes close to fingers combing
his back. It takes a moment to
remember my own age, to find
my spot on the downhill side of
this year. Dates have little meaning.
My calendar is a history of dogs,
their lives give order to the years.
A tiny growl as he jumps down
anxious to move, leaving tufts of
hair on my jeans. Shedding another
summer, marking a season in time.