This is one of those stews.
I don't really know--
you know, occasionally, God gives you a poem.
95% of this poem is true.
Most of my poems are entirely true.
This one's only 95% true.
It's called Alone.
I never thought Michiko would come back after she died.
But if she did, I know it would be
as a lady in a long, white dress.
It is strange that she has returned
as somebody's dalmatian.
I meet the man walking her on a leash almost every week.
He says good morning, and I stoop down to calm her.
He said once that she was never like that with other people.
Sometimes she is tethered on their lawn when I go by.
If nobody is around, I sit on the grass.
When she finally quiets, she puts her head in my lap,
and we watch each other's eyes as I whisper in her soft ears.
She cares nothing about the mystery.
She likes it best when I touch her head
and tell her small things about my days and our friends.
That makes her happy, the way it always did.