The Animals We Once Were

With every pat 

of your graying head, every caress 

of your thinning fur,

I again touch more than 30,000 years,

feel the warmth of a fire

that drew your ancestors to mine.

What we’ve lost 

in the angle and size of teeth,

we’ve made up for 

in paws that approached heat and food,

the companionship 

that came with the prints they left. 

Still, I sometimes mourn 

the teeth my ancestors had, the meat 

such canines could chew. 

Probing my embarrassing imposters 

with the tip of a resentful tongue, 

I hear you barking and barking.

Not for attention or food, 

though. Not for pats or walks. 

As if recalling encircled flames, 

rising gray, shimmering ancient faces, 

you glimpse in mine,

you say

woof, woof, woof

as if to howl

wolf wolf wolf