She strains at the leash,
Trying to turn the corner.
"Not that way," I say.
But Ella insists,
So I give in and follow.
Not that big a deal.
This short, narrow lane,
It's a valid path back home,
Not such a detour.
Along the sidewalk
We rush, my arm stretched out straight,
Not pausing to sniff.
She stops at the porch,
Looks at the door, looks at me,
Not old now but young.
We were gone six years,
Back now in the neighborhood
Not even six weeks.
I wish we could knock,
But our friends are not at home,
Not now, not for years.
They fled this city
Even sooner than we did,
Not fond of Gotham
But fond of our dog,
Who wags on their former stoop,
Not fenced in by time.
Crossposted from Inhuman Swill
