A congress of dogs ambassadors
between wooden legs
of coffee shop benches
a sunny, chilly November.
But my dog he died last year.
I have no ambassador.
My boy died last September
and I don’t have his nature
the insouciance to stick my nose
into other people’s business.
Around me swirls a confluence
of conversations like tidepools.
Each of us inhabits his own space.
Each with his own space to live.
At last it’s ours, as it should’ve been
all along, the freedom to enjoy oneself.
But I’ve no dog, no go-between.
I can only watch as one watches
from a great distance
from across a glassy bar.
Artwork: Van Gogh, Cafe Terrace at Night, 1888