I wonder when he told her
about Kodi,
his favorite German Shepherd.
While they studied? Or
driving to the church pot-luck?
They must have discussed pets; that's such
a good ice-breaker. I mean, I know
she wrote out a list of questions
before date #1. She's shown me
that paper; it's tattered,
the crease 30-years worn
but still crisp.
He used to tell me
with that wolf-grin of his:
I'd hurl that tennis ball
against the basement wall
thunk it
again, again, again.
and Kodi never caught on.
Headed straight for it
every time.
Whimpering when the cement siding
rose up
from seemingly nowhere.
I guess
it never got old
to watch that dog
trust.
I wonder, when she heard it
if it sounded off anything.
A warning,
echo-y, like that basement.
For me, it always echos
behind scribbled prescriptions,
the 50 minute sessions
the cracked plastic pill case
the stashes of day-old medication.
his looping question:
is there really nothing more
you can do?
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