ELDERHOOD

They’ve brought in the old dog
from his doghouse in the backyard
on the edge of the woods.

Now he lies on a rug
on the front porch and when
I walk past he dutifully

pulls himself to his feet
and tries his best to
bark. It comes out in hoarse

croaks, like coughs. He
looks away, as if embarrassed
by his poor showing. Sometimes

I want to call out words of
commendation, praise him for his
vigilance. I want to tell him

it’s all right, he doesn’t need
to worry, doesn’t need to give
the warning, he’s earned

the right to rest, to doze
all afternoon in the sunlight.
I don’t. He wouldn’t understand.