Quiet

Sunday night:
the room still smells like skunk
or dead coyote
or whatever the dog rolled in today.
My hands reek of it, too,
lavender soap's attempt at masking the ugly scent.

Now she's asleep in the basement,
curled up behind the khaki chair.
why she sleeps on that cold concrete floor
instead of on the cushioned rug...

It's quiet now
but her nose still quivers after that rabbit.

If I could expend that kind of energy at day,
perhaps I would be so tired at night.
Then I wouldn't mind the feel of a cold floor
against my chin,
tail curled over my nose,
the fresh stink to fill my dreams.