Mount Clemens The Leash Slips
The leash slips from my grip.
One second I’m holding the rules in my hand,
the next—gone.
She bolts.
Brown blur on cracked earth,
ears back, eyes wild.
For one glorious, rule-free moment,
she owns the park.
No crates.
No “stay.”
No clipped voice saying her name twice.
She runs like the thing she once was,
before bowls,
before collars,
before people with pockets full of biscuits
and so many goddamn rules.
And I stand there,
frozen,
half afraid,
half jealous as hell.
Because I know—
deep in the rib cage—
I would trade a dozen quiet walks
for one run like that.
And maybe,
maybe one day,
I will.
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Body hurts.
Soul creaks.
Dogs need feeding.
Sky cracks pink.
Another day?
Hell yes.
The floor’s cold.
Shoes by the door,
one laced, one not—
thesis of my life.
The dogs circle,
impatient philosophers
with twitchy tails,
ready to chase the day
while I’m still
negotiating gravity.
Outside, the wind talks
through alley wires.
Trash cans rattle,
as if the night
left messages.
We step out,
paws first,
feet after.
The world smells like rain
and asphalt and promise.
The sun hasn’t decided yet—
neither have I.
But we go.
Because the dogs say so.
Because the day says so.
Because hell yes.
Morning, Valley
The sun comes in sideways,
a slow crawl over stucco walls.
I pour water for the dogs.
Charlie circles, Jadie stares me down.
In the yard, a hummingbird drills the air—
a jeweled little bastard,
impatient with the world.
Across the street, the neighbor’s chimes catch
a breeze that isn’t really there.
The valley smells of wet grass,
old coffee, and car exhaust.
It’s perfect.
No one is awake but us.
The dogs sniff the earth
like priests at confession.
Traffic hums somewhere out,
a far-off river of fools
chasing something.
Here, though—
the leash is loose,
my cup runs full,
the air is still cool enough
to forgive.
I think of poems,
of love,
of money,
of none of it.
Charlie rolls in dirt.
Jadie licks my hand
as if to say,
This is enough.
And Jesus,
maybe it is.
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