Day 73

My friend finds a dog under a car on a busy street.
Sits with her a while.  The dog accepts her, is not
frightened, doesn’t try to run.  She calls
the authorities, who tell her they can’t come
for the dog for at least a day.  Leave her there
they say or take her home with you. My friend
sits on the sidewalk a while longer, thinks.  
Picks up the dog, carries her
into her car.  The dog lays her head
on my friend’s knee as she drives.  My friend
feeds her, gives her water, puts down a towel
in a room where the dog can sleep.  The dog
doesn’t sleep; she follows my friend
through the apartment, watches her
while she cooks, washes up, sweeps the floor.
What is the point of this story, you ask?
The dog had no name, no microchip.
Belonged to no one.  Did she find my friend
or did my friend find her?  Yesterday I learned 
of a man who died, a student, young.  He fell
and hit his head and no one was with him
in his apartment.  How long did he lie there,
brain swelling, blood flowing like rushing tributaries
through the creases?  The place where language 
was encoded, the place that beat his heart, opened his lungs.
Slowly or quickly?  In darkness or daylight?  Aware
or unaware?  By the time he was found,
blood had vanquished his last thought.  The dog
sits now at the window of my friend’s apartment,
Named, tagged, waiting for her to come home.