the ghost dog

the ghost dog
is under my feet.
he's barking,
he's into the
trash, chewing
shoes and rubbing
his wet nose
on the window,
growling at squirrels
and the lady next
door sweeping her
walkway. the ghost
dog is in bed,
diagonally, leaving
me no room, the
weight of him has
doubled the second
he fell asleep.
he's unwalkable,
the ghost dog,
like walking a fish,
a trout caught on
the line, in water,
he goes everywhere
but where you want
him to go. the ghost
dog is on his back,
with his tongue
out his brown eyes
sharp and young,
flashing bright
in the morning light,
awaiting my scratch
upon this smooth belly.