Watching Your Step

The leashed dog tugs ahead, head low.
The future is right under his nose,
and he is not careful where he steps.

Perhaps what is ahead for me
is merely a matter of distance.
I look far beyond the stop sign
but maybe cannot see as far
as the dog can smell.

The mutt belongs to that smell.
Perhaps I belong to the mirage
of roses and scented flowers
and believe the future
always leaves a scent behind.