where's the dog

it's the iron
of the sun. not yellow, or
soft
as butter,
but a cold metal of white,
like the snow
that has fallen
heavy
on the low
slung houses,
with hearts beating somewhere
inside.
where's the snow shovel
dear.
my gloves. one's missing.
and my boots.
are they in the attic,
or the basement.
I can't remember which.
where's the dog?
did we leave him out
last night.