I love you when you’re a real dog.
Your nose smashed in a lump of grass;
drool revealing your ecstasy.
I love how you act surprised.
Even though you’ve smelled it
every single day of your whole life.
As if there was never grass before or anything
that smelled so good or tasted so sweet.
I respect your random and chaotic plan:
Tree, tree, bush, hydrant, bush, tree, tree.
The unassuming way you go about it.
The mathematical brilliance of your code.
How, every so often, you change it up:
The errant tree, hydrant.
The occasional bush, tree.
I love you when you eat the neighbors.
The way your jaws snap shut. The way everyone screams.
I crave us against them.
I am awed by your reckless outbursts,
your free-form flights off the deck.
The commotion you make with your toys.
I comply with your demands for peace and joy,
fresh water and flavored treats.
I’m impressed by your certainty, moved by your capacity.
And I love you when you tell me stories
about when dogs were real dogs
and men were dogs, too.
Snouts smashed into life; bellies of fire.
