The old boy lays on the couch
Chin propped on the arm;
Stares into the backyard
out the glass door with curiosity,
Waiting, patiently waiting.
The old man sits in his chair reading.
The picture window allows
Winter’s son to warm his shoulder and arm,
Sipping tepid tea half heartedly.
The morning drifts toward afternoon
And the question, what have I done,
Mingles with quiet considerations,
Waiting for motivation.
Then paws hit the floor
A long stretch of back muscles
And a cold nose nuzzles
Under my hand.
My open book hits the floor.
Brown eyes look through me
Expectantly,
Enough is enough.
My hands caress nose and face,
Smooth back fur,
Cleans matted eyes,
Scratch both ears and, of course,
under the chin a protocol formed
By habit and on which we’ve agreed,
Until he rolls over playfully on his belly.
But when stopping to check the book
And some innocuous information
His black head pops back up.
His whole body moves in,
Squeezes as close as an overcoat,
Face turned up to make the obvious point.
The old man’s hands stroke the gentle face again,
Takes the hint, gives in,
He answers the only pertinent question.
And then smiling from deep within
at his furry friend,
The old man goes for his coat,
Grabs his hat,
A wagging tale goes automatic
And out the door into the cold we go,
To watch stiff leaves play tag on the road,
To explore the neighborhood once more with my special friend
A journey I hope will not soon end,
begins again.
THH
12/2/24
Thoughts Have Hands 