two stray mutts
on seventh st
one lopes with a limp
we call him low-rider
he claws our alley home
more than the one without
gnaws hot water, meatloaf
leftovers left out and spoiling
impatient in summer
but then, winter and the waitress
two doors down. she serves
coffee that never pours cold
fingers slender as a potter’s
everyone’s favorite diner downtown.
my morning cup always arrives
filled to full, blonde and sweet
cream and sugar, I never need ask
She’ll be a good mom.
the waitress told me, one slow tuesday
how hers died. drowned
her liver in liquor. how
the whites of her eyes
faded yellow as dandelions
wilting late in september
the waitress inherited that house
two doors down, with the pomeranian
her mother kicked, again and again
bender bending into another
while she still had the strength
the waitress takes in low-rider
each year when autumn falls into winter
buys a down bed for his stink, washes him
with her own herbal shampoo and offers
bologna when he yaps at the closed door
until the street dog
sick of the incense
flowered wallpaper
and unconditional care
makes for the night again
she watches him lope low
toward that other stray—taboo
limpless and a cleft lip—
always looks a snarl
mean enough to prowl
sweet enough to polish
blood off low-rider’s chin
after every scrap
the waitress holds the pomeranian
under snow that falls like leaves of paper
turning toward stillness. she watches
old boy, snout down at taboo’s heels
away from her porch, she watches him
brindle into moonlight and gravel.
Bryce Swaim is a student in Western Colorado University’s MFA program with an emphasis in Nature Writing. He lives in Gunnison, CO and spends his time hiking through the surrounding mountains in the summer and playing in snow in the winter. His poetry aims to contemplate our role on this planet, usually through the lens of characters. He grew up in Houston, Texas.