Along the path, a man and woman are walked by a dog.
The pink, wet pelt of his tongue
is arched abstractly outward, slurping air.
 
Again, I begin wishing –
 
the wish that tells my therapist more than descriptions can alone –
 
for someone to please just throw a gnarled branch for me to retrieve
or spill a little beer at a campsite and let me lick it off leaves stapled on the ground
or give me reasons why two legs are better than four.
 
Forget racing airplanes or bringing in broken creatures
with jaws lined red like sashes on a spelling bee victor,
 
I’m interested in the metaphysics of Doghood.
And at this point, my spell of canine spirituality comes full circle –
 
Before the sun stretches back,
and the Rangers perform their rounds,
the couple opens their car doors
and in jumps the dog, seizing shotgun,
resting his head out the window like a comma.
 
The dog, with a belly full of creek water
and insects crushed under his paws has got it all right.
 
And before I come home, making sure no cars are in sight,
I try too –
balancing my head out with one eye to the road
and the other left free to wander –
 
I spread my face wide and think, maybe I’ve found the secret,
but the moment stops as quickly as it began
 
as a turn springs up ahead
and I duck back in to steady the wheel.