Empty

Bono was no longer

inside the house,

but his food bowl

was in the kitchen,

the blue sleeping bag

in the corner

where he slept.

 

I put his leash and collar

on the back porch.

He would never meet us

at the backdoor again.

 

Jill fell upon the bed—crying,

and I did my best to hold her,

to be more than a hard-ankle man,

that would say, “Suck it up.

It was only a dog.”

So I held her, and then said,

“Come on, let’s not do this.

Let’s go get a puppy.”

So I called the breeder after she agreed,

and told him we were

coming from Alabama,

that' we’d be leaving

in twenty minutes

to make the three hour trip.

It was 4 pm.

 

We climbed a mountain

in my Ford truck.

We called to let him know

that we were minutes away.

But, after making a wrong turn,

we found ourselves up

a mountain on a narrow road

that made Jill uneasy.

She’s afraid of heights.

She grabbed my leg,

pleading that I turnaround.

“You will go off the side of this mountain.

And no one will ever find us.

Our kids don’t even know we’re doing this.

Please, turnaround.”

I did.

She let go of my leg.

She put her hand to her chest.

Breathed.

 

We found the split-rail fence.

The plow was sitting there too.

Just as he said.

We turned down the long gravel driveway.

The truck shifted its weight

as we climbed along

through the potholes,

and the stars were crazy bright.

Lights doing mad dashes across

the face of nocturnal sleep.

We were in

the mountains of Tennessee.

We could breathe.

 

At the edge of the woods,

we could see a dim window,

the shape of a cabin.

“I hope this is it.”