Even though the afternoon is hot—July New Mexico hot—
you suggest a walk around the block.

Together, holding hands like when we were young
the heat had little effect on us.

Even though you asked, you took ten minutes to get ready.
Finish an email. A clean shirt. Different shoes.

The dog begs to get going. She whines,
grabs her leash and brings it to the door.

Must be in the Man’s Best Friend articles of confederation.
If at all possible, the dog walks with her people, thus her pack.

Up Snowheights. Always up first when living in the foothills.
It’s eleven o’clock. The postman is down the block.

The sun heats car and truck hoods to fry eggs—
a culinary trick local TV news demonstrated last Tuesday.

The sky’s one cloud is north of us about forty miles
above the Sangre de Christos and Santa Fe.

The trees remain perfectly still. Only the wingbeats
of startled doves deliver the slightest breeze.

We j-walk twelve times in order to remain
under the shade and out of the spray of untimely sprinklers.

The dog, woofing, not barking, does not strain the leash
when a squirrel stops mid trunk, turns, head pointed down.

You talk about this and that, then get to the dentist
and the six new crowns in August

that will dig deeply into our savings
and cancel our September trip to the Antietam reenactment.

copyright © 2018 Kenneth P. Gurney

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