Sitting with the Dog

The whippet’s getting on at ten.
After the park I sit with him
On our scruffiest sofa,
Hearing his peculiar doggy sighs
And feeling him wheezing softly to sleep.
I know that soon, in a season or two,
His black and trusting eyes
Will close forever,
And no rabbit-chasing dream
Will jolt his leg to scratch my jeans.
He will just be gone,
And things will go on.