Walking my Dog in Logan Park after Mary Tyler Moore’s Death

by Jan Zlotnik Schmidt

The phone dings in my pocket

as I clutch the leash,

the dog pulling to reach another pup.

Ding again—Mary Tyler Moore dead at 80.

I stop for a moment to read my phone.

Watch a homeless man toss white

scraps of bread to black squirrels

darting this way and that.

The news of her death meshes with

other headlines --Breitbart, the refugee ban,

executive orders, the XL Pipeline—

Doublespeak, lies burning my throat, my gullet.

I protested after Kent State

Sat in against Dow Chemical

Marched against the war in Iraq.

It is that time again.

But Mary and I lived a different world.

Back then, I raced home to watch

 (no DVR dreams deferred for us)

to catch her cool intelligence, independent spirit.

Sometimes my friend and I would go

to Sibleys, try on wigs like alter egos—

I always picked a brown flip with bangs

to cover up my frizzy long hair.

And in the snow in Syracuse

we tossed hats in the air

sure our bodies were ours to control.

Sure we could light up the world with our smiles.

The dog yanks me out of my reverie.

We circle the square again.

Vermont, 13^th Street, Rhode Island,

Logan’s statue, his horse, hovering above us.

In the drizzle and fog, I momentarily lose

my way despite knowing the familiar path.

I look for the red brick Victorian with turrets

my landmark, my way home.

Fearful of circling back

to an unclear future.