For Linda

Your pant is my metronome,
Arthritic black puddle
And you know, before your
Pink mouthglove salves
My damp cheek, that you
And I have an understanding.

You should have been there when he woke,
Feeling more guilty for the way they
Treated the dog who was still there
For the children,
Just because of the love you see
Once in a while in December,
When everyone’s home for Christmas
And the snow settles effortlessly,
Like morphine.

Through it all, the opening and regret,
The dog still wants to lick you, raise
Your grades, stop the fighting,
Bring back grandpa. Sometime she scratches
Or nips you by accident, struggles
Off to take her proper place
On the shag near the closet, or in it.

How do you like it there up underneath
Pop’s pants, the greys, and Mom’s flannel
Skirts? Do you sense the voice of Whitman,
—Who he?—gnawing on your temples,
Or is it something else more basic
Like pages from the Newark News
Stuffed in ancient wing-tips?