The errand.

As I turned the corner, I glanced back,
saw a little dog, trotting half a block
back. Where did he live? I wondered.
My day’s plan was to wander
through seven proximities, errands to run.
Whose was this dog? whence had he come?

Should I stop, let him come to me,
pull biscuits from my bag, say, here,
big fella, where’s home for you? Read the tags
on his collar, if indeed there were tags—
but what of my errands? The shirts
at the cleaners, the paper to buy, the birds

that wanted noticing? The dog, the dog—
a complication to bother me, nag
at me, were I to ignore him—so I turned,
whistled. He pawed at a daffodilled berm.
I stepped to him. I thought I could hear
tag-music, meaning maybe someone cared

for him. Could I reach him and read
that name, that phone number, leave
him safely delivered on a grateful doorstep?
Would he wait, or skitter, give me the slip?
The dog’s proposal, if you could call it that,
revised all of it: this shaggy, short-

legged, jingly figure impinged on
the very premises my plans hinged on.
I willed him homeward, but he lingered.
I took a step, then another. He demurred.
My birds, paper, shirts,
my wander through seven suburbs?

It was noon. The sun shone. I heard
a whistle, or thought I did, and leaned
into the sound: his master? An errant
musician? deliverance? a red herring
in the mystery of what would become
of the dog, my errands, my green afternoon?