I'm startled
by car horns and brake lights,
the sudden screech of tires
as a little dog motors up the street,
flanks flexing with effort.
Just moments out of the gate, I suppose.
Why else would he invest so much energy
in getting away?
He has a target, though,
a purple panel truck
with the word "Bachman's" on its side.
He leaps in the air behind it,
torso twisting, jaw snapping,
really enjoying his freedom of speech.
It's hard to believe he can get such height,
that he will not grow wings
and take to the air like some new creature of myth.
At any moment, I believe the world will come
rushing back to him, shrieking and impatient.
I expect him to slink away with his tail between his legs.
Right now, though, he is still made for the air,
straining to slough his dogness
and become something else,
an idea maybe, or a gesture of love.
Two more leaps and he stops,
convinced that the flower man
will not come back for his lady. He lifts his head
and trots off as if all these cars had arrived
merely for his audience.
As the laughter wells
from the deepest chamber of my heart,
I look into the backseat
and blow each of my daughters a kiss.
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