Walking Bailey
At the sight of my green-and-navy Pumas
he remembers "beg," haunches plomp
to carpet, front legs supplicate so high
he almost falls over. And this is why
it’s so good for me to go—much more
than exercise (O my smugness in the summer
suburbs, empty but for landscapers,
because cardio is indoors and paid for):
it’s his simple animal joy over the same route,
trailing the shifting patina of smells. Learning
where a rabbit was, its path violent
as lightning. Strolling through gutter
puddles, having a drink at the same
time. There’s no thought to it; no swimming
spiral of chemical washout, just the sheer
amazing change of the world.
[July 2007]
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