He Walks His Dog Across a Soccer Field
The dog stops often to sniff
the scuffed turf,
it smells last Sundays game
tracing the play, the points
where the intoxicated ball
slid crazily,
through layers of musky exertion.
The man of course smells none of this,
he only smells a ghostly perfume
now buried in another place.
Yet even here
deep in this rucked and rutted earth
like a dog on a remembered scent
he follows her.
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