Backyard, frontyard dogs. 912a, 26 january, 2020

Logan and Po’boy are having some conversation on the other side of the street.
A fairly heated discussion, to be sure, though not necessarily escalating into argument territory.

Logan, still making his case as the older boy remains quiet, perhaps checking the bushes for bones, (I don’t know, I’m all the way back here, how could I see?) mouthy and insistent, bright and bold. His strategy works; Po’boy interjects a few half-hearted *woofs* then a few more, weaker, then quiets.

The neighborhood is quiet, save for the low hum of the recycling plant on the edge of the city, varied bird calls (the only one I know for sure is the crow atop the tree two yards over), and a few passing cars.

Po’boy renews his half of the conversation with confidence and vigor, however, Logan is nowhere to be heard.

Five more inquisitive barks from Po’boy, then three more.
Then silence.

the ghost of you. 12:42p. 8 may, 2019

i look over at the ghost of you
i can see you clear as day
never from this perspective before
the hammock came after you died.

i can see you in your blue hawaiian shirt
the lighter bits matching your eyes
i can see the shape of you at the grill
hear the click click of the tongs
  as you turn the meat
the ice in your glass as you sip your drink
the smell of cooking food
the sounds of the mechanics of the grill.

i want to invite you to share my hammock
to feel it bow beneath our combined weight
to feel your body next to mine again.

Knowing you would be appalled at the thought
  of my feet near your head but
  physics outweigh preference.

i sigh, and smile
imagining our continued negotiations
that have outlived you.

a notebook open to the page where I wrote this piece.