We used to talk during our walks with dogs…..Norman lagging behind Floyd….it wouldn’t always be that way….

A beautiful Newfoundland….Floyd was….while Norman, named after Mailer, a drunken Irish-man….he’d made the Jewish wordsmith proud…..

They were two….we were two….it was family….it was comfort in chaos…..Never enough….money….sex….comroadary..one on the road….the other with thoughts of the poet’s life….you can’t have both….

Walks in fields of fall….or spring with tall graases waving…Hills to climb….,Write a book ’bout a dog that saves a marriage….it’ll sell millions, You said. Shook my head….laughed….it was the millions you wanted….

I miss walking dogs…..I miss walking dogs….