She is a certainty stomping around the only segment
of a football pitch not made mysterious by mist.
A rocking dog dangles below the yo-yo hand extended
until parallel with the playing surface and its molehills.
I finish pulling back the curtains, put a pair of Sony cans
over my ears, plug in the jack, tap the icon for Jazz FM,
soon broadcasting from my trouser pocket. The day
and date are not yet considerations, but both hands are
free to breakfast me, and dogs have never been my bag.