We amble. Him, shuffling on furry paw,
And with ancestral motive, sniffs the air,
For mammoths, sabre-tooths, chips left on the floor,
Me, sometimes I hardly need to be there.
Apart from watching out for bus and speeding car,
To check for green men, not much for me to do,
Occasionally he turns and cocks his rear,
And I scrabble in my pockets for bags for poo.
My life reduced to this, twice every day.
I’m walking through the seasons of the year,
Debating the big questions of the day,
He does not listen as his food gets near.
I muse why when his supper’s just the same,
His poo comes out different every time.
From ‘A Bench for Billie Holiday: 70 Sonnets’, Valley Press , 2018