CarrollBlog 10.8

LOST DOG

by Ellen Bass

It's just getting dark, fog drifting in,

damp grasses fragrant with anise and mint,

and though I call his name

until my voice cracks,

there's no faint tinkling

of tag against collar, no sleek

black silhouette with tall ears rushing

towards me through the wild radish.

As it turns out, he's trotted home,

tracing the route of his trusty urine.

Now he sprawls on the deep red rug, not dead,

not stolen by a car on West Cliff Road

Every time I look at him, the wide head

resting on outstretched paws,

joy does another lap around the racetrack

of my heart. Even in sleep

when I turned over to ease my bad hip,

I'm suffused with contentment.

If i could lose him like this every day

I'd be the happiest woman alive.