The impression left
on my pillow and the long,
dark hair remaining.
The shower hissing,
listening to her movements
from the other room.
She doesn't belong
here, certainly not to me,
happy, poor city
dog, yapping at scraps
out of reach, her powerful hands.
Wide eyes bent up, agog,
I fawn on those who
give me anything, I yelp
at those who refuse,
and I set my teeth
into those who come too near.
Supine mutt, ears perked:
the din of the rain?
Or is it the shower, still?
I'd been on a scent
so long, lost it, then
followed something exotic,
new, fleeting and fair.
To think I would have
lost it in the storm again,
but for one dark hair.
.
