To the man in the gray felt vest who lives in the building where I, too, live:
who I pass Tuesdays and Thursdays when I’m on my way to yoga and you’re returning,
presumably, home from work:
One day we will eat boeuf bourguignon from mismatched china,
our old dog Pistol asleep by our bed which will be high,
and soft, and made by you, for me, for our anniversary.
In the autumn we will go to our secret camping spot,
tucked between a blank white granite cliff and the sea,
just room enough for a tent, and a campfire.
At night the groaner buoys accompany the movements of clouds across constellations.
In the morning the fog is so thick we are not sure if the rest of the world has disappeared
or if we have disappeared from it, drinking strong coffee, playing gin rummy,
Pistol sniffing out the last remaining loon.
Around his muzzle, the hairs are turning gray.
Each time a wave washes over his paws he barks quietly, and to himself.