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Barkley

He was barely nine weeks old
When Jim set him down inside the front door
And he came in, not timidly
To this new home with all its long-established 
Smells, but he strut forward
As if he owned the place. And, so,
When it came to choosing his name, we
Decided to call this cocker-with-an-attitude
Barkley after Charles Barkley
Who ran onto courts as if he owned them,
Which he did.
So like this champion-bred spaniel
Who henceforth owned me.  This
Longest-earred, rare tri-colored prince,
Who would lick my fingers one by one,
From thumb to pinky and lay guard over me
— With his ashes now set waiting
To be blown in the wind with mine — always
Kept me still as I stroked him, as some others might
Turn worry-stones in a pocket, to keep me steady
In challenged hours, as our telepathy
Spoke without a second’s delay, as if
God had planned the timing of
Our together, 
So Barkley would strut on ahead to show me
I had nothing to fear.

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(C)sally Young eslinger 11/2020

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