My boss has a pooch she brings to the office.
A West Highland White Terrier,
an old one—rather foxed, like an old book,
brown around the edges.
She gleans, like Ruth,
under our desks all day,
sniffing for morsels we drop.
We all eat lunch at our desks.
This is no ordinary pooch, however
she is a newly emancipated female.
She had a mate, older than she.
They used to visit us together and he dominated.
She followed him around with downcast eyes,
he got all the tid-bits and the handouts and the gleanings.
He died two months ago.
Now she lifts her sweet simple face
to look at us—perks her ears,
even tries to wag her tail (rather stiff from disuse).
She’s a clearly happy woman.
Free to glean alone, after all these years.
She’s in the limelight now.