There are things I love and then there are things I can't have.

The two usually overlap like concentric circles or like hands 


folded gently across my lap. They whine for me the way a dog 

would, nudging his wet nose against my elbow. I can't give him 


my time or he'll take it all. For now, I'll watch over him, feed 

him in the mornings, and hope that he doesn't bark loudly or scare 


the neighbors or bite someone. If there's wolf in him, what's in me 

that's not me? What separates barking from howling from writing? 
 

Perhaps we, too, are like concentric circles.