Selfishness
I used to sob in front of the dog—before he died,
before I had children or married my wife—his belly
helplessly pressed to the rug that smelled of his sweat
from years of waiting. I know he hated it, that it made
him uncomfortable, embarrassed even, if a dog
can feel the squeamishness of sympathy, like people I’ve
known who turned away from the sharp edges of my
breaking. Like them, he preferred me powerful, my hand
on his head or just beside the collar that told strangers
what I called him. Once at the city park he peed
on a person’s leg—this creature who had always known
who to bark at and who to give his silence—leaning
into their body, gently, under a sky of weak clouds like
stuffing pulled from a couch. He must have known
something about them that I didn’t. I cherished the idea
of his knowing, even as I cried, even if he didn’t know.
