He’s off on a
6am dog walk into
a quiet frosty 37 degrees
you can blow smoke rings
at that temperature
curse the numbing on your fingers
grind your teeth for the sting
on the edge of the ears
I’ve done it so many times
but now in retirement
he shares accepts my goodbye
as I close the door
sink with my robe into the sofa
amid the swirl of artificial heat
a facial of coffee steam
and warm pen in hand
I take my first step onto
the white blanket of paper
walk the ballpoint a little ways
look outside and stop
this morning I’m writing
a poem inside a cocoon
that is already starting
to wiggle