Self-Portrait with Clair


She’s number seven, a good dog in a long line of years. 
Each new one finds a home the day the last one dies.    
Friends say too soon. Grieve your ones that disappear,
give each their due, not privvy to how hard I cry.
It’s not tail wags or tricks or snores at night,
it’s how I need that known quotient of fur.
I know as well as I see black and white
that the new dog does not come to transfer
feelings from old to new. She comes as light
to a soul in deep despair, a child of loneliness
eager to nose in deep, give a hand caress
to a mute, receptive head eager to be liked. 
I bring home a faithful creature I need
for me, not her, a self-serving deed.