Neighbors

I got up in the night.
My dog came along.
The rooms made arms.
I poured a glass of water.
My dog drank from her bowl.
Through the window screen,
I heard my neighbor breathing
and wind chimes jingling
from a nail in his foyer.
“That’s Dave,” I said to my dog.
His bedroom adjoined mine. 
The holidays were coming
and neither of us had a boyfriend.
I gave my dog a biscuit.
She was scheduled to die
in the morning at nine o’clock.
I looked in the cupboards
for something more.
I saw the reliable plates.
Earlier, Dave and I drank
the wine he was saving for a date.
“Ah hell,” he said, and I agreed.
My dog went to the door.
I let her out to the courtyard.
I stood in the front room, waiting.
The white lamp hovered in the corner 
like a moonfish. Out there, my dog
would wince when she squatted
but her nose would work
the soft air. I knew that. 
I got up in the night.
Rooms were like arms,
lamps like fish, and morning
approached like the  milk truck,
though we don’t see those anymore.
                                — Amy M. Clark