Once, in the yellow glow of the hay barn,
my father and I met a stray, and that dog
stayed and lived with us a while.

I named him “Pal” because he was friendly
and reminded me of a storybook dog.
Even now I can see him sitting

at my feet, his head tipped slightly to one
side, his shoulders squared back against
the passing of another boring day.

Thin and houndy, he was made for wilder
things than fetching sticks and shaking hands with
six-year olds. I think he was a hobo dog,

and one day he was gone, without
a backwards glance; his house, his dish, his supper
bone—nothing there to tie him down.