for our very good boy, Han

He barks at strangers,
the light lined floor tiles.

Everyday he looks up
at me and asks

Will we see the moon
tonight when you and I
sit together to write?

I don’t know.

Will the stars be covered up?
Will these walls finally fall away?

Maybe we shouldn’t see that far
beyond this room, I answer him.

Now look,
the strangers are in our yard.