The golden light and syrup heat
Of 5 p.m. in late July
Go suddenly cold and thick
Like oatmeal left too long.
I responded to some internal clock
Stopping my task and walking to the kitchen.
Ready to make your dinner.
We buried you yesterday morning
In a grave I made for your still form,
Curled tail and paws arranged as if in sleep,
A velvet ear against the clay bed.
I realize with the pain of a wound that no longer bleeds
That I will never again be called
To take you up the street and get the news.
Nor prepare your dinner, scratch an itch, wake at 2 a.m.
For the rest of my life, my socks will match.
My time is all my own, with no calls upon it.
And the cavern of agony that entails
Has no language for relief.
I stare at the half-finished pot of your soup,
Remember your bright expression
Cajoling me to reveal yet more treats.
Feel the absence of my Dingo-shaped shadow.
Time is undone by sudden motion,
A tuft of your dark undercoat
Moves along the baseboard
The silent testament of Loss.