Old Dog by Eleanor Livingstone

Stung by winter’s salt and grit
his cold paws barely grip
the icy pavement

still he won’t cross
to the sunny side, hangs
his head when I reach out

to tug his collar, leans
away from me, his body
a counterweight

keeping us both upright on the ice
linked by my outstretched arm,
my hold on him slipping;

all he has left is stubbornness,
this heft of bone.