Leashed

At sunset on the gray suburban street, The only sounds are sounds of scraping feet. My dog and I tread slowly on the black Asphalt. I feel something is pulling back The leash; my dog has found a treasure trove: A mailbox, where the people come and go. Though she would like to stay and smell all night, I pull her back and walk with all my might. But, as I think of all that I must do, The early spring wind pulls me back into My jacket, where I rather would not hide When in nature's beauty I could preside. Though in the darkness it was hard to tell, I realize, now, that I am leashed as well.