She walks.
It is more like a march.
There should be a band followingher,
Or an army.
Each day the same route
Past my house
And the onenext door
And back to her own.
Repeat.

She strides up my frontporch
As though she dwells within.
A short, stout woman,
Her everymotion,
Look and snide remark
Make her seem to me like a giant,
Herblack hair with a distinct streak of gray.
She comes to my door,
Eyesglazed,
Expression blank,
But her tone very aware.

She makes an oddrequest,
"Do you suppose you could ... I could ...
you could lend mea puppy ... your puppy?
Only for an hour ... or two ... or ... "
Shetrails off, fading into her distant past.

What a petition!
From a womanwhose own two cats are MIA,
We question, but never ask of theirwhereabouts.

I deny her as always,
And she returns to her dailyritual,
Unscathed by my refusal.

She has long since lost hermind
And maybe she walks
In hopes of encountering it once again.