Two Nights At Home (Poetry)

The way I remember it, Dad came in
through the back door, its rain-swollen wood
scraping loud against the sill, as harsh
and shrill as any banshee’s wail, warning us.

He brought the night in with him,
dripping onto the kitchen tiles,
his red face running — it was the first time
I had seen my father cry.

Put to sleep — he wasn’t coming home.
His bowl gone from the corner, every hair
hoovered up, his lead gone from its hook.
A chair moved back to fill his vacant spot.

Years later, just visiting — a refugee
from a failed marriage — I slept in my old room,
groggy from fresh heartache, only half aware
of a sound I’d heard a thousand times before —

a certain rhythm bumping up the stairs,
my door nosed open then a sudden weight
across my feet and with it comfort, flooding back
from childhood — his doggy smell, his low contented snore.