The first time John slept with Emily
her boxer, Tyson, climbed into the bed
and refused to budge,
shifting his ninety pound bulk
until, his derrière coming to rest
at last against John’s head,
he became a one-dog band,
snoring and farting
in two-part harmony.

When shown the door,
the dog would bark and scratch
like a spurned lover
begging to be let back in,
and yet, as John admitted,
her “boy” was the gentlest of boxers,
his huge brown eyes
melting the steeliest heart,
the inquisitive tilt of his head
proof of an agile dogsbrain
straining to comprehend.

They brought in a Goodwill couch
with broken springs that creaked
at every movement
and he spent his nights there,
hiding his muzzle in a pillow
each time they made love
as if to say, I’ve seen enough.

Not that he was a prude.
Even with his missing equipment,
he tried to mount the youthful Pink,
his nub of a tail quivering
with delight.
But that was merely sex.
Emily remained his only love.

In the end, like Jules et Jim,
they made a tacit agreement
to share the girl.

(orginally published in Cyclamen and Swords)