January-white... dense ice fog rolls
and twists across a wet blacktop road.
Dreamland-anguish. Wolfhound in Deadland.
His boyish, cheery pre-school voice,
Where am I? I don't know this place.
You recognize this wide road...
west of Dusty, broad north side gravel
shoulder for drunks and truckers to doze,
for a man to walk a road-weary hound.
Wolfie sits, stares up at you in Deadland,
waits, suggests as he always suggested,
Hey, I know where we can drive to...
a grassy fun field to run forever in.