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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.
Copyright ©
Kyle Maples
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