The basset hound at the end of the street
goes by the name of Goose.
I wonder if from his lowly state,
(low in stature, perhaps, but never dignity),
I wonder if he can even see the face of his best friend,
the great dane who lives next door.

“Small and Tall,” 
I whisper to myself as I walk by,
or “Goose and Maverick,”
though I know that’s not Tall’s real name,
but neither is Tall,
and I’m not sure I like those narrative connotations. 
“‘cause we’re the best of friends, doo doo doo,”
I hum to myself as I jog by,
but I don’t like those narrative connotations either.

I walk by one day to find both the portly hound dog
and his portly human in the yard. I wave.
“These damn dogs are killing the grass!”
My neighbor laughs,
pointing at the well-worn tracks along the fence,
where the grass is not dying.
It is dead and has been for a long while.
Years of eager hellos and theatrical games of chase
have worn themselves into the surface of these two small patches of earth.
Each dog slides into his own groove,
one alongside the other,
like Pyramus and Thisbee,
meeting to kiss at their favorite hole in the wall.
Sniff at their favorite hole in the fence.

“Damn dogs,”
he says again.
He knows as well as I
that the grass is a fair price to pay
for the rarity
of time and love made visible.