Friends
She's as far away from two
as I am from sixty-five,
both of us unsteady on our feet,
and her year-old yellow lab
dogs us, tongue lolling,
in the back yard.
The day is warm,
so I fill a Rubbermaid bowl with water
and let her dip it out or pour it out
as she pleases, onto the lawn—
or her shoe.
At every opportunity,
the dog obligingly laps it up,
and loose lips streaming,
showers the baby's silky head.
She ignores him.
A stone patio abutts the lawn,
and on this small step down
she sits, knees drawn up,
then pats the place beside her
inviting me to sit, too,
and this I will remember--
her delicate shoulder blades
beneath the oversized cotton T,
little bare legs kissed by the sun,
and the big yellow dog,
taking the seat that was meant for me.
Sue Ellis
