A girl, her perfect neck,
the way her eyes lost focus
while she gathered her hair in a ponytail,
that soft inward turning of a task.

The door to the bar opens on a hush of rain.
Someone has a dog they want to bring in
but the bartender's shaking his head no.
The rain changes over to snow and the streetlights buzz on
and all at once the color disappears from everything.

I watch the guy tie his dog to a rail,
come in, order a shot. Some fancy Irish whiskey,
but they were all out so he tried to get a deal on bottled beer,
slipped a broken pretzel into the pocket of his shirt.
The girl with the pony tail slides into the next booth,
waves away the smoke from a rude cigar.
Pretzel-Man turns, tries to pick her up.
It was like a child wearing mittens going for a nickel in the snow.
She cracks her knuckles and turns to me, says,
I need a drink with a little umbrella.
Someone let in a draft, ordered one.
Some dog, he says, is sleeping in the street.
Some dog, he says, lets his dog sleep in the street.
The girl smells of wood smoke and lavender,
wood smoke and lavender and the bare branches of trees.
I quit writing about how I love her, close
my book, listen to her speak of every dog she's ever loved.