Anything but Standard by Edward Hirsch

Anything but Standard

It was the two of us, wasn't it, on those steamy nights

circling the low-slung museum across the street

and lingering by the pond behind the chapel. 

It's how the southern clouds passed slowly

overhead, season after season, year after year, 

as you followed a low intricate scent

across the stately lit lawn,

and studied the squirrels in the live oaks,

and waded into the brown reflecting pool

with the broken obelisk. 

You were a descendent of water dogs

and anything but standard

when you materialized out of the sticky heat

with your dripping black forehead

and delinquent grin, a growl unmuzzled. 

It was your Russian face that steadied me

as I sat on a battered wooden bench,

lost in a night that wouldn't end,

and you lay down—calm, poised, watchful—

and stirred beside me on the simmering grass. 

Let's get up and go.

Trot ahead of me, old friend,

and shake off the watery darkness.