A Bed for Dogs

I would write about the sun again.
I would write about the juniper,
turning brown. I would write
about the orchard, or the shed
where you’ve been keeping shovels
and grade rakes, where you built
a set of shelves for gas cans
and gloves, where I will never go
for anything now that the scent
of straw is gone.

I remember hauling bales of it 

home in a red trailer, and skinning
my little fingers when trying
to break the ties. You knelt down
with a buck knife and tugged
sharply, warning me to stand
at a distance, then calling me back
to plunge my raw hands into the bale
again and tear out brittle clumps of hay
to throw down on the plywood floor.

The labs couldn’t stay in the house.
But they wouldn’t have to sleep
in the rain, not until that Friday
in October when Jakes hind legs
gave out. We found him in the mud
and carried him inside, laid him
in the bath and ran the shower
over him, his s**t and vomit
clumping in the drain.

I would write about my sister
crying in the hall. I would write
about standing on the front porch
listening for the fast clicking
of his claws on the bricks.
But none of this seems important,
just a few thoughts that came up
this morning when I found an old scratch
on the front door.