LESS OF DUST

I cannot think my dog's feeling for me
will stop when he dies
or dissolve like the morning mist.

What streams in him now
will sweep through the world,
like a butterfly caught on a breeze.
People in chaos will pause on the curb,
beer trucks back up for a bird.

And so I bend closely above the white fur,
his nose on my foot, his eyes looking up,
knowing we can't be forgotten.

Parts of us never slip down the drain—
I don't mean just teeth and hair.
There is less of dust in dying.
We were born to care.