Helical spirals spliced into a pit bull-boxer,
Roxy yawns a pink cavernous maw,
teeth sharp as thistle thorns,
then she sleeps, twitches, dreams of chasing
backyard squirrels or a hurled leather bone
and seconds later all this is memory.
Seems my life is always past tense.
Me? A reconstruction of reminiscences
like Roxy’s yawn a moment ago—
no longer now, but then.
I am memory, a half-step behind awareness
stretching longer and blunter each decade’s breadth
as life shortens between trips to grocery shop
or physician tests.
The dog snores. Did she yawn a while ago or was that yesterday?