A Hard Night's Work

Walking Clancy, we step over
Mrs. Hitchens
curled up, sleeping soundly
on the sidewalk,
tired, I assume, from her late night —
full moon and all —
pass Mr. Wiley hurrying home
just before sunrise,
shivering under his hooded
woolen cloak.

The newspaper delivery is happening
like clockwork —
Sally’s gears must be well-oiled
today. “Good morning!” I greet
the neighbor at the end
of the road. I’ve never caught his name —
sounds Hungarian — and, between you and me,
he always seems a little bleary-eyed,
a little undead, if you’ll excuse the expression,
but neighbors are neighbors and people are
just people

people going about life,
just life me and Clancy,
who stops to sniff…something,
probably nothing, though he’s
adamant that there’s something there.
If only I could see the world
through a dog’s nose,
to know why he’s got to stop
at every tree, every post,
as if those things too warranted
greeting

but what do I know,
just that we both need a stretch
after our night keeping
the demons
at bay.