He appears twice daily, around eight
a.m., later on in the blue hour after
the horizon has swallowed the sun.
Swaggers up the porch steps and waits
for me to serve him. Grunts approval,
complains when I’m late. He’s dust
whiskered, streaked with grease
from junkyard odysseys. His nose
is scarred, hard souvenir of an epic
battle for a minute’s tryst with a thin
calico. Nights he doesn’t show, I leave
the light on, sit by the window. Knit.
First appeared in Naugatuck River Review
Sarah Freligh's is the author of Sad Math, winner of the 2014 Moon City Press Poetry Prize and the Whirling Prize from the University of Indianapolis. Other books include A Brief Natural History of an American Girl, winner of the Editor’s Choice award from Accents Publishing, and Sort of Gone, a book of poems that follows the rise and fall of a fictional pitcher named Al Stepansky. Her work has appeared in the Sun Magazine, Brevity, Rattle, Barn Owl Review, on Writer’s Almanac, and anthologized in the 2011 anthology Good Poems: American Places. Among her awards are a 2009 poetry fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and a grant from the Constance Saltonstall Foundation in 2006.