carried
David Sullivan A man tender-walks a dog with its haunches snugged into a support. Leash trails from his hand. Leather straps wrap its body, some well-loved luggage he couldn’t part with. He lets each back paw touch ground though the hips are shot. He wears ear buds, says soothing words—to a lover?— no, sweet talks the dog, this big, bear-like man with his goatee and bald head he rubs as they walk. He lets her snuffle the grass by the light pole, hoists her back leg upwards so she can pee while he discreetly looks away at traffic’s slurry. * My dad carried me when the rattler bit my heel, repeating calmly: Gonna be ok. What I wouldn’t give to be with him as he is, not want him other than he is. Not want myself other than I am. 68