Already I am much too careful about the state
of Kingsford’s joy when I rub his belly in bed.

He purrs, an engine idling midwinter. I do
not want him to run out of endorphins–

not expecting you to leave in December
I rushed to the driveway where you had bags

in the trunk. I have come to miss the footsteps
that used to populate the hours of our days

together. So I pet him now to make him
happy, delay our mutual depression.


(originally published in Fleas on the Dog, Summer 2020)