3 a.m. and a full moon.
Happiness is not his specialty: this much
can’t be argued. He remembers the night he met her,
twenty-five years ago. She sat on a couch.
That black hair; those eyes. Later,
they talked for hours in someone else’s kitchen.

In the moonlight, he sees the branches of the tree,
grown large during those twenty-five years.
Sometimes she’s bossy. Often he’s just impossible.

Inch by inch, the moon sets behind the alley
where each morning they walk the dog,
silken ears up, outrageous tail spread wide,
fanning the air for all the world to see
what an honor it is, leading the way home
on this magnificent day.