I want to die while walking the dog.
He walks me, really, pulling
one hundred and fifty listless
pounds along invisible
trails suspended in air.

We are rushing, uprooting
insects from their goldenrod
homes, trampling some.
The leash slips as I curl
my fingers into my palms
while he continues along,
pushing through the blades
of grass at rapid pace—thinking,
it must be nice to die while walking.
I take one step, and another,
slower, determining
how much force to give
what might become the last step,
watching the dog disappear
into the figure of some stranger—his head
cupped in the hands of another
who guides him into a house
where no one has died. Inside,
he paces, but doesn’t wonder
where the leash and harness
and body were discarded.

The dog keeps pulling me
into myself—my face
smothered in dirt, fingers shedding
all precious atoms, my essence hanging
to be rinsed with
the next morning’s dew.

The deathbed dog turns
his head after many yards, looking
nomadic, noticing I‘ve gone—
to walk was his last given command.