Poem in the form of Anger

by WLS
I am a dog who knows
how long you’ve been gone 
by the smell of you
disappearing. Just last year
we read by the light
of the woodstove. Your crooked
pinky finger trembling the edge
of the page. This year is different,
colder. The stiff grass flush
with frost. I dive, on my own,
into the sleek, hard shell
of my mind. Crack stone there,
unwind snares, deal deals,
bargain, pay a price to feel
no pain. At night I apply
the salve of the company, then
wake up alone. I do not linger
in bed, I put on my boots, walk
right into the yard. The sky
is waxy. Sun shoved back by clouds.
There is a fresh egg in the nesting
box. I lift the latch on the hutch
and bring my little hand down.
Do you feel something for every
egg you meet? I don’t.