A kiss, bright as bitten orange, the growling of an
aviator’s dog. And three times nightly a visit
to the well of thieves. What percentage of her
slumpy solitude, her antic rushings to the window,
her bosomy chokes and sobbing shoulders, what
percentage are intended for the neighborhood voyeurs,
the abacus-fiddling matchmakers, the whisper-coated
watcher hired by a jealous wife? The dog shadows her
ankles with his eyes, lurches now and then to ghost her
as she skygazes, his furry ears tipping and tilting
to sounds no hopeful growling can bully into being.
She pats the sad obedient head, fills a bowl with water,
a glass with wine, settling as the lights go down, eyes closed,
reliving the citrus sting of that now-precious parting kiss.