Training the Corgis

Why Touch and not Come, I ask

the dog trainer with the treat-filled pouch

strapped to his belt. Because Come is

too common, he says. Come over here,

come get this. He shows us how to rub

the freeze-dried beef against our palms,

hold it up to the air and say Touch.

The dogs run to my wife and me, press

wet noses into flesh, demand their treat,

as we finish the lesson with Yessss,

and its upturned tail of S’es to signal

our pleasure. Touch will save us

from the open door, the murky dark –

it is your most valued command,

he tells us.

                            On the nights at one

or two AM when the corgis bark,

my wife looks deep into the baby monitor

next to the bed, gauges their distress

and heads downstairs. She guides them

out the door into pitch or moonlight,

drenching rain or summer’s musk,

the wind ferrying a breeze or winter

squall across the big lake. It could be

any night of the year – the shortest

or the longest. When she comes

back to bed, rolls hip and shoulder,

forearm and palm toward me,

Touch, I say.