Cry a Little
She doesn’t know why she feels like crying
when she comes home to an empty house.
Her dog senses something pathetic
as she opens the door, sets down her purse,
forces her shoes off with tired feet.
He comes to rest at her knees,
licking her hands, shoving his nose
into her thighs. She tells herself
it’s a mood, the moody-weepys,
that if she can just cry a little,
just for a little while,
then she’ll feel better, she can smile again,
but she doesn’t want to do anything;
only sit in the chair with the dog’s head
beneath her hand, rocking back and forth.
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