The Sheen

 

                                   

                               

              

 

 

 

 

The sheen of the well-cared-for

Beckons, shines: the dog trotting

Behind Master benevolent, leash

Held at perfect tautness so

Unfelt, pace neither too

Fast nor too slow, a daily

Ritual the dog knows will

Repeat, regardless if Master

Be tired, or north wind

Blow. Chasing its

Ball, the dog feels

No need to recall

The barking left back at

The pound that happy

Day. No, look

Away: this passing

Stroller, baby’s hair brushed

By the breeze, full bottle

Lolling in its lap. How

Pleasant to be simply

Present, eyes at rest on road

Ahead (not wary scanning

Side to side, nor drawn

Back to the scary day

Someone forgot food, word,

Or touch). Without such

Sheen, a child will hardly

Merit sight: a darkness

There repels the light. So—

Look!—that dog, that

Bird, that tree!--kindly

Distracts from what it is

Best not to see.