Evening Constitutional
By Rita Dove
What? What.
Talking to me?
Alright. Aw. Right.
Didn’t see your lips
moving—too far away,
ya know? Yeah.
There you go on your twilight
neighborhood patrol,
the embodiment of premeditated indifference
with your sashed trenchcoat
and imaginary fedora:
crinkled angel dangling a cigarette.
No Significant Other?
Where’s your doggie, then?
What? What—talking to you?
Naw. Don’t mind my mutters. I’m here
for fresh air. Just walking out
the kinks.
Source: Poetry (April 2023)