I’m two lanes over, my window lowered
for a clear view. A young man, maybe mid-thirties,

camped on the median, places his cardboard sign on the ground
before I have a chance to read it. Earlier, a shooting

at a gas station left three dead, one a six-year-old. 
The road still blocked off, I take First Avenue downtown. 

The young man squats and looks away
from the cars—his hair dark and messy, 

rolled shirt sleeves expose thin wrists, dirty hands.
He pulls a water bottle out of a backpack

and bends over his dog—a black, medium-sized mutt
like my dog, Charlie.

I listened to the newscaster’s rushed voice. 
Police yellow taped the area, the sidewalk active with onlookers.

A novice can fire three shots in less than a second. 
I turn off the car radio, knowing local station updates

will come. Why know more about the shooter?
A typical red light is 120 seconds. Water droplets

fall from the tipped bottle, anointing the dog’s head. 
The young man smooths water with his palm

along the dog’s chest, and it shines, then wets each paw.
Is he talking about the heat, sorry for the dog, promising

they’ll soon laze under tree shade and eat something?
The dog stands, wagging its tail.