Somewhere, a woman wakes up
in a bed that she fills half of.
Her white dog hops onto the bed,
the white sheets and comforter
and coverlet, and its gold ID tag
delicately clinks against the collar.
The dog smells like pancake batter.
Its paws are white and clean.
There is no dog hair on any blanket,
nor on the carpet or hardwood floors.
The house offers her a pink bathrobe
on a silver finger poked through
the bathroom door. Here, take this,
her house is empty again, no sign
of dog or human, the kitchen counter
has never been used, the knives
sparkle in their wooden slots, undulled.
Her husband is planning a surprise
for her, that is why he left so early.
We know it, but she doesn’t.
The morning is dark and full of possibility.
She could do anything today,
especially in her home, she could wear
any of her dresses or flowing blouses
and never leave the house, she is so
satiated. When she opens the door
to let the dog into the yard, we see
it has just snowed, the sky glows blue
and we pan back for her reaction to
the silver car in the driveway, big bow,
red, satin, plopped on top, dog yipping
for her to notice the gift, the keys
jammed into the ignition, a silver heart
dangling from them like the pendulum
on a grandfather clock, like the heavy
silver heart that he gave her last year
to string around her throat, so that he
can see how his choices for her please her.