It wasn’t Morse code for sex but you, actually, wanting me to walk the dog. The stepchild I always wanted in the form of fur and a sloppy tongue. When I come by you’ve left me rotten teeth in the coffee brewing by the door. The note says you’re out of blue waste bags and I’m feeling shame lodged in my throat like a used coupon. Between my fingers your salty resentments are all over the dog leash. I’m walking the dog and singing my blunders in a way only magicians could understand. Who calls who darling tonight? An anchor someplace longs for my legs. There are better places to be then walking your four-legged birthday present. Like inside the trunk of a car or at the bottom of the ocean. Tomorrow, I’ll let you walk your own dog and I’ll be chained peacefully underwater, searching for my own sunken way of life.