I Don’t Walk My Dog at Night

Steps fall in succession on the pavement
As steps do.
Soles meet with cement, dole out side hugs, then sweep on.
We stop here and there to sniff at leaves and roots and squirrel remains—or he does. His toes scrape against the stone in a way my shoes don’t and his tail wags in a way my spine won’t.

Today, we walk by dusk. So thankfully, we walk by dusk. Leavings of the light
Trim the roofs of building blocks
On the opposite side of the street; and refraction fills the sky. So thankfully, it fills the sky.

I measure these steps against the failing of the light to ensure we make it in before the night. He may not care about the falling of the dark, but we make it in despite.

We make it in before the night.

In the morning glow, steps fall in succession on the pavement
You know.
His toes scratch; his tail wags, and mine still won’t.

It’s early hours. There are plane wings easier to pick out against clouds and faces easier to see when there’s sunlight—

Even those hidden in the shadows behind windshields.

So I can look you in the eye.
And when you whistle from the safety of your street car, I can hear your proof.

You prove so suddenly.

I see you prove so suddenly that even in sunlight, it’s—

We—

So suddenly, in sunlight,

From the safety of your street car, you prove that I’m unsafe,
Remind me of the fears felt burning beside parked cars, of insecurities summoned and hands unsought in the shade.

And I see you prove so suddenly that even in sunlight, it is night.

Stay gold,
Sabrina