She walks these nights with me,
reminding me of midnight walks with the one I loved,
the one who lived with me in my first apartment,
the one I'll never get over.

This one,
a neighbor's aging domestic with only half a tail,
she knows she doesn't belong to me,
and I know I don't belong to her,
but we share secrets like old friends.

I tell her about him, the one who left me
as soon as the dog entered the scene:
how he loved the cricket symphonies,
and the train howling in the distance,
how he was young and strong and
owned the night
while riding on my shoulder
like a sultan king
or trailing through shadows
like a thief.

She throws herself to the ground,
rolls onto her back, saying:
You talk too much.
Touch me.
Even I get lonely.

I share a bit of liver from my pocket
and she bats it around the sidewalk
before tasting.

We limp around the block,
listening to midnight.