Pointing to her panting Afghan
"Hi Stan," I said
Waving to its conical
Tongue-lolling head
Wondering how a country on a leash
Could become so thin, nervous and hairy
We had coffee
Stan panted
She took me back to her art deco flat
And I tripped over the rug in her entry hall
"Oh sorry," she said, "It's Afghan"
Up close I could see Stan's hair
Woven into the fibres
Open, organic, like an unfolding plan
Or an idea of nationhood
Maybe it was just random thoughts
That made me connect the threads
Dogs, carpets, countries, people, hair
She offered me another coffee
While Stan panted in a corner
Head cocked with a haughty, unconquered air
© shaun patrick green 2012
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