Hazel's poem

This poem was written several years ago by a friend for her dog, Hazel. Hazel passed away this weekend. We share this poem in her memory.

Gaping Tenderness

The number four
Eases curbside,
Hiss, pop, valve
Flap doors open,
We flow in,

Doors close.
Driver nods at my bus pass,
Glances at my dog, no question,
Pulls out onto Division Street.

Facing the isle, the faces,
Gauntlet of strangers, we stumble
For a place to sit or stand.
She plants her rear between my legs
Ready for staggering stops and starts.

A dog on the bus, wearing cape,
Insignia for service.
Gushing glances skim her soft fur,
Hands hunger, arms twitch,
Wanting, blood runs warmer, in spots.

Unspoken stir, attention gathers, minds
Wake up wondering.
Is there something wrong with the woman?
Is she blind, deaf, epileptic? Concerned,
The front-seated move, offering their place.

"Can I pet your dog?" Shoulder tap, "M'am,
What kind of dog is she, what does she do?"
"Is she a service dog? Can I touch her?"
"I could never bring my dog on a bus."
"Mommy, look at how her eyebrows twitch."

Life rises, mingles, slips and leaks.
Story scatters throughout the vessel.
Revealing one mystery: dog,
to touch, you, and you, to touch.
Dog, god, dog poised to give it away.

Bared hearts flail in the isle.
Trembling muscles, four-chamber symphonies
Glistening, reflecting lament, out
Of chests caught gaping for tenderness.

The number four
Eases curbside,
Hiss, pop, valve
Flap doors open,
We flow out.

Warmer, in spots
Doors close.

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