Walking the Dog

Pulling her now, by the throat, from whatever

may distract her — squirrels, runners, a ball

bouncing, birds in the grass — a clean jerk

of the leather loop, buckle and chain,

tethered shortly to his side,

if that's anything like

what we need from each other — loyalty, or

the right kind of focus — to anchor the leash

in his left, the other to grip more gently

for slack, should she need it,

to nose in the dirt,

or to yank her from another, more fierce, who

would end her — to know a jump or the faintest

growl means another quick snap — Hey, that's not

how you say hello . . . him saying, as if she were a child.