Bonnie

Everything in our house
has been in her mouth.

She wasn’t even our dog,
just a puppy on loan

with paws that didn’t fit,
eyes that didn’t match
staring up puzzled:
why would anyone
not want to play?

Always a frantic stagger:
stumbling down stairs,
sliding across floorboards
slamming into walls--
a daily race to the door
to lick and nuzzle, and rest
her head against our calves,
just to welcome us home.

She hadn’t learned
games aren’t meant for the street--or
how to recognize a frightened command
from a playful tease--or
the difference between cars and toys.
She was just a pup.

She wasn’t even our dog,
but what does that matter?