National Poetry Month: Day Twenty Nine

Wolf at the Door

Sometimes I can hear
his hot breath on the welcome mat
and sometimes
it is the sharp click of paws
as he paces, waiting
for the other shoe to drop
for something to go terribly wrong
an accident
heartbreak.

Sometimes he sleeps
and we step gingerly
over his furry back
as we go in
and come out of the house.

Some nights
he sits in the yard
and howls at the moon.

Some nights
I do too.