The Ghost of It

A new friend has a wolf dog
named Ghosty. I'm sitting
in bed charging my laptop with
the phone charger. I have
garlic scapes in a pink plastic
tumbler on the windowsill.

If I had a wolf dog, it would
lie on the floor beside
the bed, keeping cool. My lap-
top would resonate with its
breathing and the memory
of its occasional howls.

The garlic would continue to
admire itself in the pink plastic
tumbler, the round curled stems
and the pale green flower buds
and their tips pointing every
which way. But of course no
dog in here

and that's a good thing, I have
nothing to feed it. It's near
mid-summer and I'm still
waiting for spring. A wolf dog
would know the season without
thinking or maybe not care.
I can't even remember

when to harvest garlic and I
don't know how to tell when
the artichokes are ripe. I've lost
something, moving so far

away, or maybe it's still
out there, howling, trying
to catch up to me.