New poem.

In a crowd of people,
a single argyle-sweatered
chihuahua.  No one’s really
gushing over or even noting the little guy

and that seems to be
fine with him as he 
alternately darts and trots
in and out of the forest of legs

swaying or lightly stamping
in time to the furiously craggy
distorted solo guitar and soul wail
of the gentle man on stage 

at the underground club
on a late winter night.  If I were that
chihuahua I’d be scared of being 
stepped on but this one seems

unperturbed, certainly seems
more comfortable among
this young and sweetly serious throng
than I ever could, which is why

I may be the most immobile person here
since I am certainly the oldest person here
and don’t want to draw too much attention here
to the awkward way I’m trying to disappear

as easily as the dog
in the handcrafted sweater
who is trotting and darting
only barely observed

among these kids,
who surely
could have been
kids of mine 

if I’d ever dared
to think of that; hell, if I had,
I might even have had
a dog of my own.