Little Rescue

March and its sky,
hungry at the window,
begged to enter the kitchen.
 
Its glow, a sheet of paper,
tacked itself onto most things,
a bit like you will.
 
The snow, tyrant on our first
ride home. We stopped midway.
In the dark, you stood on all fours and braved it.
 
Morning erased the drive,
your leash hung neatly
on the door handle.
  
(If all mornings could erase,
we’d forget the futon,
the stuffing, patched-up walls,
waiting while paint dried)
 
But we remember:
you licked my nose once, lightly,
and woke me,
 
let me know that you
and I
were safe.

I was a stranger,
as were you.
Your gaze, fixed and nervous,
has been that way ever since.
 
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