My body is stupid like a dog.

My body is stupid like a dog.
It is pacing this room that was ours,
baying occasionally, to keep up appearances,
and expecting you back any second, or twelve hours from now-
whatever an hour might be, to the inside of my thigh.

And even though my too-well-knowing brain,
has wrung countless tears out of my eyes,
there is a sort of sad dumb optimism,
in the curve of my shoulder,
in the arch of my foot,
in the bow of my lips,
that you're just around the corner-
whatever a corner might be, to the inside of my thigh.

The numb havoc of separation and the torrential downpour of waiting,
course through my synapses,
and my young dumb body lies, relaxed, maybe happy even,
in a sort of slack-jawed, canine anticipation
of your inevitable return to my bed-
whatever a bed might be, to the inside of my thigh.