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A stray collie-mix lives under Barry's metal
shed—he trucked her home from the strip mall
and lets her fend for herself. Last winter, she bore
a litter. Barry set a plywood board over
one that wandered out and froze. Brin brought the rest
inside and kept them in his closet—it's warmed by
the water heater and a crude plastic skylight
the landlord cut into the slanted ceiling in
the early 70s. Brin built cardboard walls
and a nest of papers and let the mother in
and out of the front door as she pleased. Those weeks,
Brin came home running upstairs shouting in a high
voice, "Mo mo's! Mo mo's!"—the name he'd given all six.
They answered squealing, their clouded eyes looking for
his shape, and me laughing, watching them play,
leaning under the cross-beam of his doorway.
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