Lucy

Loyalty to ashes and love to dust--
Lucy died on a cool-sunned day
and a cold front followed with rain
to blanket her.
Every tap of October sticks on siding
makes me turn to look for the ghost
of her black toenails on the kitchen floor.
The first time, after, that I sat on the porch swing,
the toll of a restless collar bell
heralded the arrival of the cat
to claim Lucy's head's place on my lap--
ginger fur does not seem quite as soft
as her black, folded ears under my hand.
Every dinner's table scraps go unclaimed.
She was just a dog, after all,
but grief is grief
all the same.