Peter Kaczmarczyk
The Old Dog
You screamed at me as I made the bed. Over your voice I heard
the tear as one corner of the fitted sheet gave way, its threads pulled thin
as, like us, it aged slowly away. Old dog slept
in the corner, deaf to the racket that we made,
going through our daily ritual of inaction, reduction,
burying ourselves in imagined hatreds and perceived betrayals.
I reached down to pet him, a scratch behind the ear, left the room,
brushing my hand across your back as you turned away.
The sheet left clinging to the edge of the bed.
The old dog twitched his tail, stood and stretched, gently took
to the steps we had provided and curled himself upon the sheet,
waiting to see which of us he would share the bed with tonight.