What she does now, what she used to do
Timmy used to race through doors Then she learned to wait Now she won't come in the door at all. She stops. Looks around. I enter, leaving the door open. After a while, she walks in, too. She used to pull ahead of me on our walks Then, she walked beside me. We connected, woman and dog. Later, she slowed and walked behind. Now, she moves like a plover, zigzagging about Doing the old-dog amble, to one side then another, across the footpath, head down, sniffing everything. Is she's aware of me? It's not clear. She used to gulp her food - frantic, insatiable Then, she got old. She lost teeth that were cracked And others rotted in her mouth Now, I cheer at any eagerness to eat She used to pace and sniff round the garden Pushing into beds of ivy and azalea She dug in the dirt and ate it, sprinkling her nose with black grains. Now, she stands on the grass. Her nose twitches. Now and then, her tail wags. Then it stops. She stands and sniffs and her tail ...
