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Every time I walk you to sleep
bundled and small on my shoulder
I try to avoid the center of our living room floor.
But there’s no escaping the many veins and fingers
that fan out from that broad patch of uneven oak.
My clumsy slippers always seem to frighten up an earthy moan
that invariably spreads beneath the piano
massaging the bass strings
and resonating in some dissonant key
that sounds creepy to me
but you’re too cranky to notice.
My feet and ears know these floors well.
Our nightly safaris take us through rooms of echoes
around cats and dogs that blend too easily
with the shadows on the oriental rugs
up stairs tip-toeing with our double weight
each step chirping with static like trapped birds
the pine board on the landing crackling enough
to always spring your fading lids
wide open.
We walk, or rather,
I walk, trying to tuck you comfortably
between neck and shoulder.
You squirm in protest and whine
like the swollen door that leads to the back porch
where sometimes I seek counsel
from the moon and the maples
on nights when I, almost sleepwalking,
try to wear you down.
Gary Shiebler (he's the one on the left) is the author of
A Search for the Perfect Dog;
a memoir based on his experiences working as a humane educator at the Helen Woodward Animal Center in Rancho Santa Fe.
Gary’s follow-up, A Search for the Perfect Cat,
will be published this fall.
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