the sad stone

This afternoon I called Arturo
because the day was so bad
for him. He brought his dog
over to meet Pacco; he knocked
at the back door.
He is my garden helper. I am
someone who doesn't keep firing him.
I let Pacco out since Arturo never has the dog with him here.
Pacco turned to fire, we could see it happen,
he snarled and leapt at the pitbull mix dog, who was leashed
to the porch rail. Luckily his dog is a female with a placid side, and
I could grab my bundle of rage and drag him indoors.

Arturo had come to tell me he was buying a fourth of a piece
of property quite south of here and his life was chaos and he
couldn't help me weed any more. Pacco got his hand,
but not badly. I, in my bathrobe not expecting anyone, clutched
my robe and waved them around the corner of the house
where Pacco couldn't see, mumbling about neosporin.

And then he was gone.
So, later I called.
Hand fine.
He had sat on my porch, drawing a sad face
on a loose stone.