Flyboy, the dog of Clinton Alley.

I dreamt of Flyboy last night. My old neighbor Paul’s scrappy mutt. My affection for this dog was small ten years ago as he was grumpy and when we were alone in the garden or house I was a little afraid that he would bite me. But in my dream I loved him. 


Oh I loved him.

Life seemed easier when Flyboy was alive.

When the North campus neighborhood was rich with graffiti artists and sketchy people kicking cans down my alley as moonlight poured from the sky and I stood in a window with a tiny baby.
I was so sure of myself.
Of my heart.
My powerful passions harnessed.

Not really.

Not everything had happened to me yet.
There were people I had not met.
There were things that had not come to light.
There was a lot of time.

But Flyboy. He was just chilling in the sunshine, looking all grumpy and perfect and I reached out and stroked his head like I never used to do. And I just kept telling him what a good boy he was and it was like I knew I was going to wake up and the room would be bright with the slight scent of regret.