Sunrise, the big dog whines
I crack an eye open and peek at the clock
a paw scratches my elbow over the edge
after dreams of the absurd
the smaller, older dog still sleeps
dogs dream, too, in all their universes
no alarm clock required in this house
time, more elastic than my waistband
I pull on shirt, socks, sneakers
bending is difficult (waist, knees)
get the coffee started
after shoelaces, pour half a cup, pause
notes of dark cocoa and caramelized sugar
I swallow a small handful of defensive pills
I am the Bionic Man, chemically speaking
cholesterol, diabetes, blood clots
to live this long is state-of-the-art
in prior centuries, time would have killed me by now
the dogs also benefit
I play god to these animals whose leashes I click
our frequent walks are my salvation
no one to adopt them if I die first
no one to adopt me if they die first
we live here for the sidewalks, the paths
pond with ducks, egrets, glassy water
we see but don’t hear the abundant airplanes
leave the landscaping to the pros
the ads make this an almost paradise
for active seniors 55 and up
a few couples but mostly widowed residents
still stunned by their singlehood
the pace of life hormonally slow
not quite the retirement I dreamed
last stop or the exit ramp to somewhere else?
a turtle suns itself on the culvert
big dog lunges, restrained by his leash
we hear the splash
(Myrtle Beach, SC) is the author of three books of poetry, most recently Armed and Luminous (Main Street Rag Publishing Company, 2016). Taylor’s poems, articles, and reviews have appeared in Rattle, Comstock Review, The Pedestal, Iodine Poetry Journal, Running with Water, Wild Goose Poetry Review, Asheville Poetry Review, Litmosphere, Gyroscope Review, and South Carolina Review, among others. A Pushcart Prize nominee, Taylor formerly served as review editor for The Main Street Rag and co-editor of Kakalak. After retiring from his business career, he earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Queens University of Charlotte in 2015.
