I wrote this poem today for my dog Beau, who turns three tomorrow. Happy Birthday to the best boy.

I cried in Westfield Newmarket last week.

On an escalator.

I’m not sure why. Let’s not

slap a label on it.

I cry a lot these days. Easily, unexpectedly.

Nearly-spring blossoms waving at my window? No comfort there.

A little dog needs fed.

So I cry my way out of bed and do the dog mum chores, and then

we sit on the step in the sun and I cry some more.

A little dog leans into me and we watch the blossoms, and

when the cat joins us, politely patting my arm for space on my lap,

we all wave back.

***

We walk. We walk and I buy a Twinkie and a fridge cigarette (diet coke

by the way; also, fuck you, coke, I’m not capitalising it)

and that makes it nearly OK but not really.

A little dog wants me to throw the ball.

So I chuck and run and hide behind a tree and jump out to surprise him,

and his face is alive with relief (Where is she? Where did she go? I’m alone, I’m all alone, I’m—

Oh, thank Dog)

and joy,

and his curly-crazy legs race him my way,

and I am smiling, arms wide.

***

It’s Thursday evening, and my work week is over.

I used to love weekends.

These days it’s me,

and sometimes the catch-up game.

Hey, we should catch up soon!

(We’re always falling behind, even when we’re together – it’s a time lapse thing, or maybe it really is the fabric of society ripping—

No one does life side by side anymore; it’s the new normal, apparently, to mostly see the back of someone)

A little dog is at my feet.

His day is over, and he wants only

my sofa, with me and him on it.

***

Bedtime.

Bed, the oblivion cocoon.

(Good name for a movie, that. The Oblivion Cocoon. Coming soon to a solo cinema near you.)

It’s quiet.

I never used to be afraid of the dark. Or the quiet.

A little dog is on my bed.

He circles again and again

and again

then thumps down and into me (already curled to fit perfectly the curve of my hip, any closer and he’d be right over my heart)

ready to travel with me through the night,

connected,

until the sun comes back.