Richard Fox

The morning after our wedding night at the Village Inn

Jason Dog & I yawn, descend the polished maple staircase. The keeper, trim white beard, greets us. Opens the door.
In the parking lot, a crew cut removes blossoms from our car, knife splits hundreds of knots. He grins you’re welcome.

At the common, I unleash Jason. He prances, reads canine message bushes. Two bare chested boys, muddy dungarees, chore boots, race the main path. Jason chases, barking. A boy yells Git down dog! Jason slows, backs away, returns to exploring scents, choosing a prominent spot to post his presence.

The door held open, I'm handed a silver tray—coffee, chocolate croissants, marrow bone. In our room, you lounge on the bed, wear only a sheet.
You toss the bone to Jason, who stretches out in oval sunshine. I undress, join you under the sheet. We sip, feed each other, rescue wayward morsels.