Every time a piece of food
drops on the floor, I brace
for my cockapoo to race
screeching nails slide
across wooden floors, rush
to slurp up the fallen crumbs.
But there is no dog.
Not anymore.
My feet, under the kitchen table
no longer rest on his back
toes buried inside his fur
now have no place to go.
He’s not here to jump up
when I sneeze or to growl
at invisible intruders.
I thought I was used to his
being gone, but every time
I walk through my front door
I’m still careful not to step on him:
my phantom greeter
and I bend down to pet
a memory.