Dog Sitting

A cold kitchen

(that I never knew

before this weekend)

and a hot cup

of coffee

from a mug

that’s never seen my lips.

A dog perched

at my feet,

hind legs splayed

on his familiar

wooden flooring.

I can sense

her here.

In the pictures

on the walls

and the print outs

on the fridge

from a function

they must have attended

years ago.

Her lovely face fills

each frame

and her ghost

sits next to me

at the granite countertop.

Was this mug yours?

Was this time

of day–

with the sun

peeking out

from behind

the falling night sky–

was this time of day

the one you loved most,


Did you live

long enough

in these four walls,


dressed in

a smile

and, seemingly,

so in love?

What did I know.

What could I know.

How could I see

a person

I’ve never met

in a home

I’ve never known

with a dog

who couldn’t tell me





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