I walk behind them as they keep their nose to ground,
One following the other, a sniff, a leg cocked in the air.
They mark what is theirs to mark,
Especially should some new scent linger there.
I can tell when something new comes to bear.
No, I have no ability like these two, not nearly so,
However, they tell me much when they longer pause,
And insist on greater inspection before we go.
Maybe I should do the same,
And perhaps I do without noticing the mark I’ve made.
I sometimes wonder about things I’ve left behind
But it’s mixed up with the price I’ve paid.
I tear pictures up inside my head
And toss out softer things that like to cling.
I cannot take the pull of future against past;
Either one has only sorrow left to bring.
The dogs do it better, marking what is theirs I mean.
What they truly love has no need for such marking:
The house, the den, the dish, the human, the toy,
It is part of what they are, no different from their barking.
I would not care to guess what taking that away means;
How they cope with change is their mystery.
In each new place, you’ll find them once again
Creating a brand new history
My fear is in not finding something better.
What I have shines so bright I scarce expect more.
Yet the time calls for moving on to something new,
Some place I have not been before.
And then, there is the greater need to leave
That looms closer with each footstep that I take.
I tell my dogs it’s time that we go home.
They care not for the silly entendre I might make.